Caught You
by SheriartyForever
Summary: Sheriarty. Moriarty's back, with a case for Sherlock - but things are never that simple... This is my first fic; hope you enjoy it! [WARNING: Eventual smut (chapters 11, 15, 19 and 20 so far); mild non-con elements; occasional descriptions of violence and occasional use of foul language.]
1. DID you miss me?

The lock showed no trace of forced entry.

Sunlight glinted off the sign displaying _221B_ as Sherlock swung the front door open, quickly scanning the familiar surroundings. Nothing out of place. He let out a deep breath.

And then he heard it.

A violin's sweet melody drifted from upstairs, hanging lazily in the still air. It took him only a second to identify the tune: Partita No. 1, Johann Sebastian Bach.

His blood turned to ice.

Woodenly, he forced his feet to move, one step at a time, shuffling on the carpeted floor. The music continued, chords stretching lovingly, almost invitingly.

His foot hesitated on the first step.

_You can do this._

He shifted his weight, placing both sweating palms on the wooden railing for support. _Breathe. Breathe. _He swallowed, closed his eyes. _Don't be afraid._

Step. Breathe. Step. _Creak._

The violin – _his_ violin – faltered. His heart leapt to his mouth; his muscles seized up, freezing him into place.

A second later it resumed playing – like he knew it would.

He shook his head sharply, curls bouncing, and made a decision.

_To battle._

Although he'd known full well what awaited him, a shudder still ran through him at the sight that greeted him as he opened the door.

Moriarty stood poised, the violin tucked under his chin, fingers dancing on the strings while his other hand worked the bow in long, sweeping, fierce movements. His back was turned but Sherlock could see his profile: the perfectly sculpted eyebrows, angular nose and plump lips which he suddenly realised he'd long committed to memory. The man's eyes were closed in bliss as the majestic notes thrummed from the instrument – and slowly opened as they died away, acknowledging his enemy's presence.

He lowered the violin, breaking into a teasing grin.

"Ah, Sherlock," he purred. "A pleasure to see you in the flesh again."

The detective's jaw was clenched tight, posture stiff. _This man is your enemy_, he reminded himself. _Don't trust him. Don't ever trust him._

Jim languidly returned the violin to its case, snapping it shut. "Did you like my little rendition?" he continued, dark eyes flickering over to meet Sherlock's. They bored into him like blackened pits, disconcerting against the alluring smile. "I've had over two years to learn. D'you have any idea how _boring_ it was for me, Sherlock?" He gave an exaggerated cringe. "You couldn't even be bothered to see if I was alive! Tut, tut…" He sighed heavily, shaking his head in mock disapproval – then paused, and let the condescending grin creep across his face again. "Too afraid to find out?"

_I am _not_ afraid_, Sherlock wanted to spit out, but the words died on his lips.

Because Moriarty was back – he was right there in front of him, wearing the same grey suit he'd worn at the trial, dark hair slicked back, darker eyes blinking with the same false innocence. There was no denying it. Not even his singsong tone had changed. It was almost as though the past three years had never happened at all. And Sherlock didn't understand – why he was here, how exactly he'd survived, how to resolve their rift – and above all, how the criminal's reappearance made him feel.

_You hate him,_ his mind repeated, over and over: _You hate him, he's dangerous, unpredictable, unexplainable; he's a murderer. You hate him._

But he could _tell_ the attempts were half-hearted. And that was what confused him the most.

_Focus, focus._ He blinked hard, clenching and unclenching his fists, bringing himself back to face Moriarty's unwaveringly smug features. _Concentrate on the task at hand._

"Wh… why are you here?"

Was that really his voice? So weak and thin and frail? He swallowed again, flexed his fingers. Lifted his chin a little higher. _Stay strong._

Jim took a deep breath, spread his hands, and – for a split second – his smile almost seemed… genuine.

"To thank you, Sherlock."

_Thank me?_ Whatever Sherlock had been expecting, that wasn't it. He struggled to keep his expression neutral. "Thank me… for what?" His speech was sluggish, and he gave himself a mental slap. _Focus._

Moriarty glanced around the room, scanning it, before letting his gaze settle onto where John's chair used to be. "Shame you got rid of that," he drawled, ignoring Sherlock's question. "Quite petty of you, isn't it? All this _moping_ after Johnny-boy." He flicked imaginary dust off his suit sleeve. "I should pay him a visit sometime. The Watsons… they're having a baby, aren't they?" A smirk. "Now _that_ should be interesting."

_Don't you dare go anywhere near John. Don't you dare even look at him. _But all that spilled from his mouth was, "I'm not _moping_."

Jim rolled his eyes. "Whatever you say, darling Sherl. Oh wait, wasn't that what Janine called you?" He laughed, as though reliving an old memory. "That was downright _cruel_, Sherlock, what you did to her! Still, I'm one to talk." Shaking his head, he cleared his throat before taking an elegant step backwards, a dancer before an audience, gesturing to the one remaining armchair. "But where are my manners? Sit."

"What did you mean… _thank_ me?" Sherlock tried again, not moving a muscle.

Jim's eyes flashed dangerously. "Sit down," he repeated, an edge of steel to his voice, "and I might _juuuust_ tell you."

The detective could disobey no more. Frowning, he tried to ignore Moriarty's relentless stare and made his way awkwardly to the armchair, perching stiffly upon it. He kept his hands folded in his lap.

"_Thank_ you!" Jim beamed at him rewardingly, before hopping onto the wooden table to sit there himself. He began to swing his legs in the air as he spoke. "So DIDyou miss me?"

"No," Sherlock replied immediately, despite his mind screaming otherwise.

Jim pouted. "Oh, don't be like that. I'm back, aren't I?" He reached into his suit's inner pocket and carefully plucked out a rose hidden there. With a flick of his hand, he tossed it towards Sherlock; its appearance had startled him and he struggled to catch it. Jim laughed and continued. "I _evaded death_ for you. You don't get much more _romantic _than that."

"You pretended to _cause_ your own death for me in the first place." He found he was stroking the crimson rose petals – and, strangely, let himself continue.

"Are you _arguing _with me, Sherlock?" Moriarty widened his eyes and shot a sudden, fierce glare at his opponent.

Before Sherlock could stutter out a _N-n-no_, the criminal threw his head back and burst into merry laughter. Sherlock stared at him, dumbfounded.

"Oh, I did miss this!" There were tears in Jim's eyes. "No-one else would _dare_ speak to me the way you do. Oh, Sherlock…" He pursed his lips and took a long, exhilarated breath.

"Look, why _are_ you here?" Sherlock's heart was racing again and he needed this over with. "What do you need to thank me for?"

Moriarty sighed heavily, the smile fading. He glanced around him again, then tutted quietly under his breath. "You had tea last time."

"Last time, I actually _had_ time to prepare it."

"Ah well. Let's just call the landlady." He raised his voice suddenly – "MRS HUDSOOON!"

"Shut up! What are you _doing?!_" Sherlock gasped, hastily calling out, "No, Mrs Hudson, it's – it's fine, ignore us!" His voice reverted to an icy hiss as he glared at his smirking enemy. "Are you _insane?_"

Jim pondered the question for a moment. "Prrr-obably."

"Just…" Sherlock let out a deep breath. "Answer my question."

"I just did."

"The _other _one!"

"'What am I doing'? Well, I'm calling the landlady so we can have some _teeea_." He swung both legs up and down at the same time, childishly.

"I meant–" Sherlock rubbed his temples, soothing his irritation. _You can't piss him off. He's the most dangerous man on the planet._ "I meant,_ why are you here?_"

The leg-swinging stopped. Jim glanced down at his hands. If Sherlock didn't know better, he'd say the man looked positively… anxious.

"Sherlock…" he began in a low voice, swallowing and looking up – not meeting the detective's gaze. "You and your friends weren't the only ones Magnussen was after."

_What?_

"I'm the king of the criminal empire, Sherlock, what do you expect?" Jim's tone was unexpectedly tender, as he sat glancing at and away from his rival's dumbstruck expression. "Someone like Magnussen would do anything he possibly could to control me."

"But…" Sherlock shook his head disbelievingly. "What could possibly matter enough to you for him to blackmail you with?"

Jim sighed deeply. "Once again, you underestimate us." He met the detective's gaze – and held it. "You have all your 'pressure points', as he and I put it. What makes you think I'm not the same?"

Sherlock fell silent.

"Don't think you're my _only_ enemy," the criminal continued. "You're my favourite, of course, but there are so many others… more ruthless, cold-hearted and _far_ more stupid." He leaned forwards. "And I have secrets they can't ever know."

"What _secrets?_" Sherlock searched his opponent's gaze, but the deep, dark eyes shed no light upon the nature of his soul.

The smile crept back onto Moriarty's face. "Oh, if you're good, I might tell you."

Sherlock blinked, frowned, looked away: feigning nonchalance. Jim smirked and drew backwards, dangling his feet.

"So my… _removal_ of Magnussen enabled your return?"

"It eliminated one of the main problems." The sombre expression returned; the feet stilled. "So… thank you, Sherlock." He blinked, voice softening; he looked almost… proud. "I knew you had it in you."

Warmth spread in Sherlock's chest; he swiftly combated it with an icy tone. "I didn't do it for you, James. I did it for Mary." _And for John._

"Doesn't mean I can't thank you." A hard look crept into his eyes. "And you know it's just Jim, not… _James_." As the detective made a move to stand, he swiftly raised a hand to stop him. "No, Sherlock, _please_ stay. You and I aren't done yet."

"What do you mean? I accept your 'thanks'. Now–" His chest squeezed uncomfortably, but he shoved the feeling aside. "_Leave_."

Jim shook his head with a finality Sherlock couldn't ignore. The detective leaned back in the armchair and sighed, pretending not to notice his pulse spiking.

"Have you got any cases?" Moriarty asked, almost casually.

"Plenty."

"Liar." Now it was the criminal who stood, smoothing out his expensive suit. "You've been too busy worrying about your _imminent deportation and death_. Now John's gone–" Sherlock winced– "and soon you'll be bored out of your mind. But…" He took a step closer. "I can help."

"What, another of your little games?" Sherlock forced boredom into his tone, lifting his chin to stare defiantly at his slowly advancing enemy. "You run around killing people and I chase after you again?"

"No, Sherlock." Suddenly, Moriarty knelt, crouching down before the consulting detective – leaving their faces mere inches apart. Gently, he placed a hand onto Sherlock's knee; his shadowy gaze was unflinching.

"I want you to solve my case."

The blood began to thump in Sherlock's ears.

"Solve… your case?" he repeated slowly. The hairs prickled at the back of his neck. The hand on his knee was unbearably warm. _Don't think about that. Focus. Focus._

"Yes," Jim murmured, his gaze unflinching. "I need your help."

The words echoed all over Sherlock's mind.

_I need your help…_

"H-how…" The sheer _intensity_ of the look in Moriarty's eyes made him stumble breathlessly mid-sentence. _I need your help_ – what was _that_ supposed to mean? He swallowed hard. _This is a trick. Don't let it get to you. _His hands trembled in his lap, itching to do something – but whether that was to push Jim away or pull him even closer, he didn't know.

"How," he breathed, the words forming at last, "could I possibly help you?"


	2. No turning back

Jim abruptly swept to his feet and spun around, plucking a smartphone from his inner pocket. His back to Sherlock – who watched him with his breath catching in his throat – he switched it on, flicking rapidly at the screen. After a while, he turned to face the detective again: apparently he'd found what he'd been searching for.

"Do you remember Alexander Moran?"

An image of the handsome, well-groomed, square-jawed man came to Sherlock's mind. "Lord Moran," he recalled, with some disgust. "Tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament. I managed to stop him." _My first case back with John after faking my own death. _Affection at the memory threatened to overwhelm him; he repressed it. _Not now._

"Yes, I let you stop him." Jim paused, blinking at his phone, momentarily lost in thought.

"What about him?" Sherlock coaxed. He couldn't help it, but he felt intrigued. _Why would Moriarty need _my_ help?_

Jim took a deep breath, and looked up at last. "Did you know he has a brother?"

_A brother?_ The detective briefly scanned his mind palace, but found nothing. "No."

"Well, he does." Swallowing hard, Moriarty lifted up his phone for him to see. "His non-identical twin: Sebastian Moran."

On it was a photograph of a man, remarkably similar to his brother – pale, with rigid yet delicate and quietly attractive features. The hair was lighter and more unruly; eyebrows thinner; features less bold. He looked familiar.

"You've met him before." Jim's jaw was clenched hard. "He was my barrister at the trial."

_Oh…_ Sure enough, the memory snapped into place: the face beneath the curly white wig matched that on the screen.

"He was also the sniper I sent to kill John."

Sherlock's voice hardened. "Ah."

"Colonel Sebastian Moran…" Jim sat back down on the table with a sigh. "The best sniper in Her Majesty's Army. A man of remarkable skill."

"Mycroft killed him," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. "He disposed of him before he could even shoot John."

Jim looked at him pityingly. "I faked my own death for two years, Sherlock. Do you honestly think I can't even protect my own partner from your silly big brother?"

"_Partner_?" Sherlock caught on, sharply.

"My right-hand man," Jim replied instantly, his glare daring the detective to comment. "And my… _partner_. In every sense."

Sherlock swallowed.

_Moriarty had a lover… a _male_ one. So he's… gay…_

He shook his head quickly –_ but why should you care?_

"So what happened?" He kept his voice level.

Jim gave a quick, humourless laugh, gaze drifting down and away. "Our relationship was always… rocky. He was a distraction. But not like you." He looked up again. "The sniper and the consulting criminal… we had problems, of course. He was no genius, and I just got bored _sooo_ easily."

"What does any of this have to do with me?" _They were nothing like me and John, then. Well, of course not – this is Moriarty we're talking about. This unfeeling devil._

"His brother had a terrorist plot, as you know." His lip curled into a sneer. "Alexander bloody Moran. Sebby knew, and begged me to help him. With my support there'd be no way he'd fail."

"But you refused?"

"I wanted nothing to do with it." He shook his head with distaste. "Blowing up a national treasure? Now why would _I_ do anything so stupid?"

Sherlock couldn't help but admire the criminal's bizarre morals.

"So I failed to offer my protection," Jim continued. "You came along, and sure enough, Alexander got caught."

"And Sebastian was angry?"

"Obviously. He blamed me entirely." A brief expression of pain flickered across his face. "It had been a… low point in our relationship at the time, I remember. All the arguing… I'd become so _fed up _with him. But that wasn't all." He paused, rubbed a hand on his wrist. "Do you know what happened to Alexander, Sherlock?"

"He was incarcerated." Mycroft had arranged it. "They arrested him in the hotel he'd been staying in. He gained the life sentence, of course." The trial had been a quiet affair, few details being leaked to the public.

"Yes. And three days later, they found him hanging in his cell."

Sherlock couldn't help the gasp that escaped his lips.

"It _broke_ Sebastian." Moriarty closed his eyes. "It was the last straw. Pushed him over the edge." A sad little smile. "He swore he would kill me if it was the last thing he did."

The detective couldn't begin to imagine the chaos that must have broken loose. _If someone killed Mycroft_, he realised with a jolt, _maybe I'd be the same – hunt down the murderer, no matter who, no matter the cost. And I'm not even a psychopath's boyfriend anymore._

"I managed to flee," Jim remarked blandly. His uncaring expression had returned – but was that just a mask? "I needed to hide from him until the situation could be figured out."

"Look, what do _I_ have to do with any of this?" Sherlock forced himself to get to the point, although he could have listened all day. All this new knowledge about his arch-nemesis… _fascinated_ him.

Moriarty's lips curved upwards into a wolf-like smile, but his eyes remained haunted. "Oh, you'll see, Sherlock." Running a hand through his slicked hair, he resumed his account.

"You have to understand how _close_ we were." He now sounded almost bored, like he was merely telling a story. "He was my second-in-command, had been with me almost everywhere I went. In some cases, my men trusted _him_ more than _me_."

The second dilemma had begun to click in Sherlock's mind. "So you had nowhere to hide."

"Exactly." Jim gave a small shrug. "No matter where I hid, he would manipulate my agents to find my location. He would assemble a small force and try to catch me by surprise–"

"But what exactly did he plan to do?" _Wouldn't just killing him be too simple?_

"He's gone almost _mad_, Sherlock." Another weary sigh. "He probably intended to use my own agents to kidnap me, drag me to a room somewhere and beat an apology out of me. And I wouldn't give him one, because I'm not sorry, so he'd end his frustrations by shooting me in the head." A quirky half-smile. "_Boringly_ predictable, but Sebby's always been practical."

"I should help him then." Sherlock made himself utter the callous words. "Get rid of you, do Britain a service."

"Oh, shut up. I know you won't." Jim shot him a withering glare. "Like I've told you before: you need me, or you're nothing."

_He's right_, Sherlock's conscience whispered, so he just pressed his lips firmly shut.

"Back to my problem – the solution's simple," Moriarty concluded, spreading his hands. "I need to get to Sebastian before he gets to me."

"And then what will you do?" He still didn't see precisely what he'd have to do with it.

"Make him not kill me," Jim replied, as though it were obvious.

"Track him down then." Sherlock checked his watch: five o'clock. He had hours to kill. Maybe he could slow down… _No, get this over with. Don't be fooled. This man is dangerous._

Jim threw his head back in exasperation. "I _told_ you, Sherlock! He has my agents wrapped around his little finger. The moment I try to find him he'll know about it."

"So let me get this straight." Sherlock leaned forwards backwards, inspected the criminal closely. "You want me to find Sebastian Moran for you."

"_With_ me," Moriarty corrected swiftly.

"Right." The detective allowed himself an inner smile of disbelief. _Moriarty a client? God, that's something you'd never have expected._

Their eyes bored into each other, neither of them daring to speak.

_Are you sure this is a good idea?_ His mind asked.

_Of course not_, his darker side responded immediately,_ but just agree to it. You know you want to,_ it added slyly.

He took a deep breath.

_Here goes._

"I believe… I can help you."

_There. You've said it. There's no going back now._ He slowly let out the breath he'd been holding. _A case with Moriarty… Well, what's the worst that could happen?_

_Death,_ his common sense stated bluntly.

He shook his head slightly. The worrying had to be saved for later. He'd said it. He said yes. He was going to have to go through with this now, no matter what. Despite himself, he felt a forbidden thrill at the prospect – _a case with Moriarty…!_

But it was going to be brilliant – it had to be. Didn't it?

Jim nodded at his words, smiling with grateful satisfaction. "Thank you. But I'm afraid there's just one more thing."

And just like that, Sherlock was thrown back off balance. Fears began to claw at his insides again, his little bubble of optimism well and truly burst.

"What?" He struggled to keep the tremor from his voice. _Come on,_ he assured himself. _It can't be that bad._

Moriarty looked away uncomfortably. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but you have to understand… this operation could take weeks."

"Yes." His throat was dry. _It'll be fine. It'll be great. Stop worrying._

Jim's voice was dangerously quiet. "I'm going to need somewhere to stay."

_No._

_Oh god no._

His heart began to judder.

_Anything but this._

"You can't–" he spluttered, trying to prevent his voice from rising in hysteria. "You can't possibly–"

"I've no other option!" Jim cut him off loudly, eyes begging. "It'd be the last place he'd suspect. He _knows_ we're enemies. He'd never even _consider_ you helping me!"

Sherlock's brain scrambled for excuses. "But if the others ever found out–"

"You hid a _girlfriend_ here for months. The others aren't a problem!" Moriarty leapt to his feet, advancing towards Sherlock until they were almost touching. He clasped his hands together, voice dropping suddenly to a low murmur.

"Please, Sherlock." The beautiful features were fraught with despair. "You're all I have now. My only hope."

_His only hope…_

Mind and heart racing, he looked up helplessly at his sworn nemesis. _Moriarty. Staying. In Baker Street. With me. _He pressed trembling hands to his temples; took a shaky breath; shook his head sharply. _No, no, no, this is too dangerous. You can't do this. You can't!_

"If you don't do this for me, he _will_ find me." Jim's tone was laced with desperation – but how much of it was just a game? "It's only a matter of time, Sherlock. I gave him too much power. He'll _kill_ me."

_So if I don't do this, Moriarty will die…_

_That's precisely why you shouldn't!_ logic screamed. _This man is a murderous psychopath who'll do nothing but torment you for the rest of your life. This is your chance to get rid of him forever!_

And yet there was always the hiss at the back of his mind: _But is that what you really want?_

"_Argh!_" The frustrated cry broke from his mouth and hung between them, tense. Jim's pleading gaze was unwavering.

_He's right – you need him, Sherlock, you need him!_ His conscience found was no use in denying it now. _You need to keep him alive. You lost him once, you can't bear to lose him again, not after everything you've been through._

_It's a few weeks at most,_ it continued to whisper, slyly, temptingly._ He won't do you any harm – not while he needs you. John's gone. Nobody will know._

_You're his only hope…_

Common sense tried to intervene – but Sherlock could barely hear it over the sound of his insane, illogical side.

_His only hope, _it repeated to him, hissing. _All he has – his only hope –_

"Oh, _fine_!" he gasped.

Jim's eyes widened. They stared at each other in alarm.

Sherlock's stomach lurched. _Oh god, you've done it. You've done it now._

The clasped hands dropped. The consulting criminal sucked in a shuddering breath.

"R… Really?" he whispered, hardly daring to believe it.

Somewhere in Sherlock's mind, he was smiling ruthlessly at himself. _No turning back now._

He closed his eyes. "Yes."


	3. I AM Mr Sex

"Sher-lock?"

And before he knew it the detective had flung himself across the room, slamming his hands against the door frame to force it shut just as Mrs Hudson chose to nudge it open.

He froze, panting. _That was too close._

Then a new problem occurred to him: _How am I going to hide Moriarty from Mrs Hudson?_

Smothering his inner hysterical laughter at the arrangement he'd just agreed to, he forced himself to think logically. _She knew about Janine – that hadn't been a problem. But this is Moriarty we're talking about… _He shook his curls. _Argh, I'll find a way. Somehow._

"_Sher_-lock!" The landlady's voice was now laced with disapproval. "What's going on up there? I heard someone call for me earlier, I just wanted to check if you were alright!"

He split the door open a crack, enough to meet her confused gaze.

"S… sorry." He swallowed hard. "I've… someone up here with me. I'd rather you didn't come in."

She blinked, and her eyes suddenly widened. An ear-splitting grin stretched across her features. "Oh! All right! Sorry, I didn't realise." She literally giggled, then added in a hushed voice: "What's his name?"

It took him a moment to understand her reaction.

_Oh god. She thinks I have a boyfriend over._

"No!" he exclaimed. She frowned, but her beam didn't fade. "He's not – I don't – he is _not_ my boyfriend."

She sighed lovingly, shaking her head. "It's OK, Sherlock dear. I'm not going to tell anyone."

"No, seriously! I–"

"I'll leave you two to it, then." With a knowing smile, she closed the door and headed back down the stairs.

_No, no, no…_ He ran an exasperated hand through his hair. _This is ridiculous. This is absolutely ridiculous. _He calmed himself down with a deep breath. _Never mind. You could use this to your advantage: demand privacy; keep him from her._

He turned slowly. Moriarty was nowhere in sight.

"Why are you growing cancer cells in the kitchen?"

Sherlock joined him there, watching on impassively as the consulting criminal inspected the petri dishes with the air of an expert.

Sherlock shrugged. "I was bored."

Jim grinned at him teasingly. "Well, you won't be for much longer."

Their eyes met, and the smile faded from his lips. He lowered the dishes, placing them quietly back where they had been, in their particular arrangement.

He slowly sauntered past Sherlock and out into the little corridor, opening the door to the bathroom. He peeked in and nodded to himself. Then he reached for another door handle –

"Stop!" Sherlock cried out suddenly.

Moriarty gave him a withering glance, but obeyed, removing his hand. The detective's eyes were cold as ice.

"Oh, of _course_," Jim sighed, sounding bored. "John's old bedroom."

Sherlock took a step closer and gripped his arm, tugging him away. "Don't go in there." He swallowed hard, heart hammering. "You can go everywhere but there. _Never_ go in there."

Moriarty rolled his eyes, his arm still caught in his nemesis's hold. "You can't keep _moping_ forever, Sherlock dear." His eyes crinkled up with laughter. "Just give me a kiss. It'll make it all better."

As the criminal's free hand reached up to touch his cheek, Sherlock leapt back in horror, releasing him. Jim merely chuckled, moving on to try another door.

"That's my bedroom," Sherlock growled.

Jim stood there, taking it all in: the periodic table of the elements on the wall; the collection of murder-related files lined up on the shelf; the photos of John, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs Hudson, and – embarrassingly – the single photograph of the Holmes brothers on the bedside table, from when they were both younger. He turned to Sherlock and grinned.

"_Don't_." Sherlock cut him off before he could make any snide comments.

Moriarty shrugged. "I _am_ going to need somewhere to sleep, though."

Sherlock grimaced at the new dilemma. _Of course_. He doubted the self-proclaimed "king of the criminal empire" would settle for the couch. But John's bedroom was out of the question…

He swallowed.

"Take my bedroom, then."

_Now why the hell did you just say that?_

Jim raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. "Well, it _is_ a double bed…"

"–And I'll sleep on the couch," Sherlock said firmly.

Moriarty pouted. "Oh, _that's_ no fun. Come on. What's the worst that could happen?"

Sherlock struggled to broach the bizarre topic. "…Some things, James, are… over the top."

"It's _Jim_," he reminded him, eyes flashing with a sudden icy fury. "And don't bother. _I'll_ use the couch then."

"Really?" Sherlock couldn't keep the surprise – or the tiny tingle of disappointment – from his voice.

Moriarty laughed again. "Who knows? Maybe we'll both reconsider soon."

Sherlock ignored him.

Well, that was one thing sorted. He picked up one of the spare pillows, plumped it, and shoved past Jim into the living room, where he deposited it on the sofa.

He didn't have any blankets.

Cursing under his breath, he turned to the criminal who stood there nonchalantly, hands in pockets. "Stay here," Sherlock instructed. "Don't do anything stupid."

"As if _I _would ever do anything stupid!"

Sherlock opened the door, ensured he closed it properly behind him, and strode downstairs to find his landlady.

"Mrs Hudson?" he called out. Sure enough, she came hurrying over immediately.

"Is everything all right, Sherlock dear?" she asked again, before adding, "Is _he _alright? What _is_ his name?"

He took a deep breath. "I need some spare blankets."

Her mouth formed a little _O _of surprise. "He's staying the night then? Well, don't be _too_ loud."

He winced. "Mrs Hudson, he is _not_–"

"Yes, yes, I know – just like John: 'not your boyfriend'." Shaking her head with another infuriating smile, she scampered away to fetch the blankets.

_Just like John…_

_You can't keep _moping_ forever,_ Jim had told him.

But he wasn't _moping_. Was he?

Remembering the panic that had swelled within him as Moriarty had been about to open John's old bedroom door, he allowed himself a moment of doubt.

_Maybe I am… _

_John's moved on now, hasn't he? So… shouldn't I?_

"Here you go!" Mrs Hudson returned, plonking the bundle of cloth into Sherlock's arms. Her cat-like grin remained.

"Thank you." He paused. "And, um… I'll need dinner for two."

"I'm your _landlady_, not your–"

"I'll pay you. Please. Just this once." The prospect of leaving a psychopath alone in Baker Street terrified him, but both men needed to eat.

She sighed heavily, but her eyes had warmed. "Oh, all right…" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "As long as you tell me his name."

For a split second, he panicked – then went for it.

"James," he told her. It was the unrecognisable truth. "His name is James."

"_James?_" She crinkled her nose, trying it on her tongue: "James and Sherlock, Sherlock and James… Hmm. It doesn't really have a ring to it, does it?" She thought a little more. "_Jim_ would be better. Sherlock and Jim. But wait–" Her eyes widened with horror. "No, that's like – that's like _him_!"

"Who?" he replied coolly.

"You know…" She glanced around quickly, as though she were about to break a rule. "_Moriarty."_

He forced himself to laugh. "True. I hadn't thought of that."

Her eyes filled with anxiety. "You saw what happened this morning? Almost gave me a heart attack! Oh, God. Is he really back? You told me he was dead!"

"I don't know," he lied, avoiding her gaze, just like when he'd lied to John. "But if he is alive, I promise I'll bring him down again."

"Just be careful, Sherlock, all right?" She sighed heavily, but then her eyes lit up again. "And as for this James – have you had him for long?"

"Mrs Hudson, he is _not_ my–"

"It's perfectly _fine_, dear!" she cut him off, smiling fondly. "I'm glad you've found someone else, now that John's moved on."

_Now that John's moved on…_

"I'll come down to get the dinner," he told her briskly, turning around to head back up the stairs. "_Don't_ come in."

"I'll leave you two to it!" she chortled as he closed the door behind him.

"Well, well, well." Jim took the blankets from his arms, meeting his intelligent gaze. "Thanks for these. What else is there to arrange?"

"What will you do until the case is closed?" Sherlock asked him, determined to keep things professional. The sight of the blankets spread on the sofa made him uncomfortable.

"Well, I can't leave Baker Street without you, can I?" He pursed his lips and brushed more imaginary dust off his suit sleeves. "So I'll just have to stay here."

"What do you mean, _without me_?" Sherlock frowned. "You can't leave Baker Street at all. People will recognise you, now that you've plastered your face on every screen in the country."

"_People_ only see what they want to see." Jim smiled dangerously. "I'll need ordinary clothes. It's cold; people keep their heads down. Nobody will notice."

"We're both famous," Sherlock pointed out.

"Not enough to have reporters pounding on your door." He flexed his muscles and yawned. "Maybe they'll ask you a couple of things about my reappearance, but that'll be it. They'll lose interest. I'll stay in here until you're done talking to them."

Moriarty had a point.

"Now then." Spinning around, he headed back towards Sherlock's bedroom. "Can I try some of your ordinary clothes on? See how well they fit."

Wordlessly, Sherlock followed him.

Once inside, he flung open the chest of drawers, revealing rows of neatly folded shirts. Jim inspected them carefully before picking a plain white T-shirt.

"Reminds me of what I wore when I stole the crown jewels," he remarked, sliding out of his suit jacket and tossing it onto the bed. Before Sherlock knew it the criminal had removed his dress shirt, too, leaving him topless. The detective averted his eyes.

"Oh, come now." Jim looked amused. "You've seen _John_ more than just shirtless. I'm sure I'm more than enough for you to handle."

"Shut _up_." _Don't talk about John. Don't._

Jim slipped on the T-shirt, stretching the fabric over his lean, muscular figure. He looked down at it speculatively. "Bit large, but it'll do. Any jeans that could fit me?"

Sherlock rifled through another drawer and found a pair that had shrunk in the wash. He handed it wordlessly to Moriarty, and faced the other way as he changed into them.

"Well, you can look now, _Sherly_!"

He turned. Moriarty stood there grinning, almost unrecognisable in ordinary clothing. He'd kicked off his shoes, plain black socks sinking into the carpet.

"The… the hair," Sherlock advised him, indicating the criminal's unnaturally slicked-back hairstyle.

Jim nodded in understanding, and ran a hand through it, ruffling it up. His locks broke free and dark tufts stuck up attractively in all directions. His smile was disarming.

"How do I look?" he teased.

"Great," Sherlock replied without thinking.

_Wait, _what_ did I just say?_

"Thank you, my dear." Jim looked victorious. "There's hope for us yet."

_What's _that_ supposed to mean?_

"As for _you_, Sherlock…" He took a step closer; they were inches apart. He looked up and met the detective's gaze with a predatory smirk, but something steely seemed to lurk beneath the surface. "_You_ need to learn to call me Jim."

Sherlock steadily met the challenge, determined not to be beaten. "All right… _Jim_."

"Excellent." The playful wrinkles returned around Moriarty's eyes; satisfied, he turned and strolled out of the room. His manner had changed entirely; Sherlock couldn't help but admire his acting skills. _Well, he fooled both Molly and Kitty Riley for days,_ he remembered. _That takes skill._

Following Moriarty out, he found him standing in the centre of the living room, absorbing the surroundings. Sherlock observed him warily.

"I see you've done some redecorating." He walked over to the skull on the mantelpiece, picking it up tenderly. "Billy, was it called?"

Sherlock didn't bother asking him how he knew.

He moved on, returning Billy to its spot before fixing his gaze upon the framed photograph beside it.

John and Mary on their wedding day.

Keeping his eyes on it, he swayed his head from side to side, stretching his neck. Sherlock watched him with a degree of fascination.

Moriarty turned around to meet Sherlock's gaze, sighing.

"Of all the psychopaths John could've chosen…" He picked up the photograph, turning it over restlessly in his hands. "It _had_ to be her, didn't it?"

Sherlock had nothing to say to that. His mouth was dry.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." Jim actually sounded genuine. "The Virgin… You never _did_ go all the way, did you?"

Silence.

"You saved yourself for him and it was all for nothing," he continued. "Heartbreaking, isn't it?"

"Stop it," Sherlock whispered, face pale. "Please, just… stop it."

"I can repay you in more than just one way, Sherlock." Jim put the photograph face down on the mantelpiece, and smiled. "You _need_ to get over this. I can help."

"I don't _need_ anything," Sherlock told him stiffly. "How could you possibly help me?"

"Oh, don't worry, Sherlock. You'll see soon enough." He brushed his knuckles against the detective's cheekbones – and to the surprise of both of them, Sherlock let him. "After all," Moriarty added silkily, "I _am_ Mr. Sex."


	4. Stalemate

"_Pizza_."

Sherlock stared incredulously at the rectangular boxes Mrs Hudson laid on the table.

"You bought _pizza._"

"Well, you didn't specify what you wanted!" the landlady/housekeeper exclaimed squeakily. "You just told me to buy you two dinner! Aren't two pizzas enough? Surely he likes _pizza_!"

He refrained from snapping that the 'he' she was referring to was the world's most dangerous criminal mastermind, who probably expected more than just takeaway pizza.

"Two _are_ enough aren't they?" She looked worried. "I mean… is he…" She gesticulated vaguely. "Big?"

He decided to play along with the whole _boyfriend_ thing.

"He's short and lean," Sherlock described, "but, er… fit. Very."

She grinned at him. "Oh, like John, then!"

_Like John?!_

"What? No!" he cried. _Not like John. Not like John at all._

"Never mind," she said breezily, picking up the boxes and putting them in his arms one at a time. "Moving on, isn't it? But if that's your type…" She broke off, giggling.

Shaking his head, he stared blankly at the image of the smiling chef on the covers of the boxes. "How much do I owe you?"

"Not a penny!" she assured him brightly. "Consider it my welcome to James. How long is he going to stay?"

"A couple of days, a few weeks at most." He tried to brush it off.

"A few _weeks!_" She boggled. "You're serious about him, aren't you?"

_Well, Jim isn't _actually_ my boyfriend._

"I don't know. Maybe," he muttered. He felt bad about lying – but the truth would make him feel so much worse. Imagine how she'd feel, knowing he was keeping a raging psychopath under her roof! No – he needed to hide this from her, for her own good.

"Well, hurry back upstairs then," she told him, a knowing twinkle in her eyes. "Can't keep him waiting. Would you rather I went round to Mrs Turner's next door? You know, if you don't want–"

"That won't be necessary," he interrupted bluntly. _God. This boyfriend ruse is unbearably awkward._

"Okay. I'll be right here if you need me!" She was like a cackling grandmother.

"Yes. Thank you, Mrs Hudson." He looked down at the pizza boxes in his arms. "For these, too."

She waved a hand dismissively. "Any time, Sherlock dear."

Cradling them delicately, he took to the stairs, glancing back down to check she wasn't peeking before shoving the door open.

Jim sat on the couch, looking dishevelled. He sprang to his feet as Sherlock entered, and blinked at his load.

"_Pizza_," he stated disbelievingly.

The detective sighed. "Yes, yes – I know." He set the boxes down on the table – and only then realised what Jim had done.

"You brought the armchair back?!" he positively screeched.

Moriarty looked bemused. "I thought it would be more convenient, now that there are two of us."

Heart hammering, Sherlock stared at the second armchair placed before his own. _John's chair. _His chest tightened.

"But that was in John's bedroom." He glared at the criminal accusingly. "I _told_ you not to go in there!"

"You were the one who put it in there, Sherlock." Jim made his way over to the newly situated armchair and sat down casually in it, looking up expectantly at his opponent.

_He's sitting in John's chair._

_He went in John's bedroom._

_He's taken John's chair._

"Besides, it's not John's bedroom anymore." Jim cracked open one of the boxes, and the thick, rich smell of tomato sauce wafted out.

"That's not the point!" Sherlock collapsed into his own chair, burying his head in his hands and pointedly avoiding Moriarty's smug expression. "I _told_ you not to go in there for a reason–"

"Look, how do you think you're going to get over John if you keep behaving like this?" Jim clasped his hands, shaking his head slightly. "It's these tiny things that you need to learn to ignore."

"I don't _need_ to 'get over' him," Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth.

"Yes, you do," Jim insisted. "And I'll help you do that."

"_How?_" the detective replied scornfully.

Moriarty winked at him. "One kiss, Sherly. You won't regret it…"

"Shut up." _No way are you going to kiss this psychopath. _But his pulse did quicken. _Standard chemical response at the prospect_, he tried to dismiss. _Attractive male offering sexual interest. It means nothing_.

"Um, Sherlock? This has salami on it."

Jim was staring at the meat on his pizza with evident disgust.

Sherlock opened his. It was plain, nothing but the standard tomato and mozzarella. "Have mine then." It wouldn't make much of a difference to him. They switched pizzas.

"You don't like salami then?" he asked, lifting a slice.

Moriarty shook his head. "I'm vegetarian."

"You're _what?!_"

"Vegetarian!" Jim chuckled at his shocked expression. "Does it surprise you?"

"Why _you_, of all people?" Sherlock spluttered.

"Why _not_ me?" Jim tugged a silk handkerchief from his jeans pocket and wiped his fingers on it – he must have removed it from his suit when he changed. "I want to minimise the number of deaths I'm responsible for."

Sherlock couldn't help but laugh at that. "You're doing a great job. Blowing people up and everything."

"Humans don't count."

They ate in silence. The pizza wasn't bad, just slightly soggy.

"Look, Jim…" Sherlock sighed. "We need to go over some ground rules."

"I'm _aaall_ ears!" his opponent sang with mock enthusiasm. He leaned back and waited.

"First of all." Sherlock took a deep breath. "_Don't_ enter–"

"Overruled." Jim cut him off. "John's old bedroom is just another bedroom. If I'm staying here I need access to all the grounds." When Sherlock tried to interrupt, he raised a hand to stop him. "I understand the _sentimental value_ attached to it. And that's precisely what we need to get rid of. Or rather, replace."

"Oh, look, _whatever_." If Moriarty was so determined to reform him, Sherlock knew there would be no changing his mind. "Just… don't go in there for the sole purpose of bugging me. I'm doing you a favour, James."

"It's _JIM!_" Moriarty shouted, his voice rising suddenly.

Sherlock jumped in his seat, then cursed himself for doing so. He waited for his heart rate to recover. "Secondly," he began sassily, "stop doing that."

"_You_ stop doing that," Jim snarled, face murderous.

"What? Calling you _James_?"

"I said _stop it!_" His eyes were wild, manic; he was taking sharp, shallow breaths.

Sherlock frowned, his focus heightening. What he'd assumed was merely another of Moriarty's pet peeves was beginning to gain particular importance.

"Why do you hate that name so much?" he asked experimentally.

Jim's fingers dug into the armrests. He visibly made himself relax, crossing and uncrossing his legs. He swallowed, hard. Sherlock watched him attentively – there was _definitely_ something going on there.

"Did… Sebastian Moran call you that, or something?" he tried, allowing a slightly taunting tone into his voice.

Jim smiled bitterly. "No, not Sebastian." He reached forward to pick up another slice of pizza, tenderly sinking his teeth into it.

"Who, then?" Sherlock was enjoying himself. Had he finally found a flaw in the seemingly unbreakable wall that was James Moriarty?

"Rule number one for you to obey." The consulting criminal's voice dipped dangerously low. "You don't ask about my past. You ask nothing I'm clearly unwilling to tell you."

"Only if you stick by _my_ rules," Sherlock artfully replied.

The smile crept back onto Moriarty's face. "Stalemate."

They regarded each other for a moment.

_The game really is back on_, Sherlock mused – and, despite everything, he not only felt an overwhelming respect for the consulting criminal, but… a wicked sense of delight. With almost everyone else, he was always on the winning side: the genius who saw straight through his pathetic minor foes, knew exactly which moves to make to defeat them. Here, the boredom was gone: his unpredictable – and, admittedly, gorgeous – nemesis put his real mental prowess to the test. It was… _exhilarating_. And more than just brilliant.

"Anyway." Sherlock cleared his throat. Jim resumed munching on his pizza. "Third rule: don't leave this flat without my permission."

"Not even to go downstairs?" Jim faked another of his pouts.

"Absolutely not!" he said firmly. "Which brings me on to rule number four. No revealing yourself to Mrs Hudson _in any way_."

"We're going to have to tell her eventually, you know," Moriarty pointed out.

"Not yet." _I'll figure out that problem later._

"What about John? Lestrade? Any more of your little _friends_?" he asked.

"Not them, either." He took a deep breath. _I can keep John at bay for, what, a month. That'll be enough. I hope._

"Even on New Year's Day?"

_Oh god no. _

The breath caught in his throat. New Year's Eve was only three days away – he'd completely forgotten about it, what with the time spent worrying about being sent to his death. They'd have a whole feast and stay up until midnight and drink a toast to the following 365 days – Sherlock never had seen the point of it all, but kept it up for their sakes. And this year would be no exception.

Jim offered a sympathetic smile at his pained expression.

"It'll be held here, won't it?" he pressed on. "You, Mrs Hudson, John, Lestrade, Molly. And Mary now, I suppose. Ooh, and why don't you invite your brother for once?"

"I'll… come up with something." He clenched his fists, tried to still his panic. "Some excuse."

"For _New Year's_?" Jim tutted. "Doubt it. There's no way out of _this_ one, Sherly."

"Shut up. I will." _Not now. You'll have plenty of time later._

"And what about rule number five?"

He blinked. "What?"

"Rule number five," Jim repeated, expectantly.

"I think that's it for now." Sherlock let out a long breath. "Just… no messing around. We need this over and done with."

"Whatever you say, my dear." Jim's smile was unnerving. "Now, how about _my_ rule number two?"

Sherlock frowned at him. "Why would _you_ need to give _me_ any rules? I'm the one doing you a favour."

"We need to co-operate nonetheless," Moriarty said patiently. "And like I've said, I want to repay you in more than just one way."

"If this is about me _moping_–"

"Yes, this _is_ about you _moping_. And also refusing to see what's right in front of you."

"And what may that be?" Sherlock lifted his chin, maintaining the frighteningly direct eye contact. The tension between them could have been cut with a knife.

"You and John were never going to happen," Jim told him.

_Shut up. Just shut up._

"He's _ordinary_, Sherlock." He raised both eyebrows, tilting his head, biting his bottom lip. "He's never been able to understand you. You'd always be left so _lonely_ with him."

_I'm not lonely._ An image of himself plucking at violin strings, lost in his own thoughts while John ran around chasing girlfriends came to mind; of John leaning over the very armchair Moriarty was sat in and telling him how inhuman he was. _Not lonely._

"And now he's married," Jim continued, "and going to have a baby…"

_It's the end of an era,_ Mycroft had told him. And all that talk about it being a new beginning instead, of the duo keeping up their cases together – well, now they went whole months without seeing each other. And the baby would only make it far, far worse. He felt a familiar tightening in his chest as he remembered – _the baby…_

"Sherlock, can't you see?" Jim had leaned over, dark eyes searching him. "We were _made_ for each other."

_No…_

"I… am _nothing_ like you." His voice was weak.

Jim's lips twisted upwards. "We both know that's not quite true."

_I'm not evil and blackened and a psychopath. I don't kill people…_

…But he _had_ killed, hadn't he?

He had raised a gun to a man's temple and pulled the trigger at point-blank range. He had done that.

_He_ was a murderer, too.

His mind scrambled for excuses. _Magnussen deserved–_

_Murder is murder,_ his conscience intervened. _Mycroft would have taken him down anyway. But you killed him, and for what reason? To show John how much you loved him? As if that would have made a difference. You're a killer now, Sherlock – like him._

"We could be so much more than just enemies, Sherlock." Jim rested his head on his clasped knuckles, his gaze never tearing away from the detective's. "It wouldn't take much. The foundations are in place. All you need to do is make your first move."

_Moriarty is obsessed with you,_ Sherlock warned himself. _There's no telling what he'll do to you if you give him the chance._

"Just… consider." Giving him one last haunting smile, the criminal stood up slowly. "You've plenty of time."

Sauntering over to the sofa, he picked up his phone lying among the blankets, holding it up.

"Now, shall I brief you on my case?"


	5. Who's JIM?

3:29am.

Sherlock blinked hard at the glowing numbers on his clock screen. _4 hours to kill._ He gave a long, juddering breath, turning over in bed to close his eyes and attempt to drift back into peaceful rest; but sleep remained stubbornly unreachable.

Giving up, he kicked away the blankets and sat up, eyes adjusting to the murky darkness.

And then he remembered.

_Moriarty._

The consulting criminal was just a few rooms away. His heart rate sped up at the thought. The psychopath was _under his roof._

No wonder he couldn't sleep.

He became overcome by a sudden desire to see him. What did Moriarty look like when he slept? Did he even sleep? Was he an insomniac, or did he spend blissfully untroubled hours at ease?

_No, don't be ridiculous. _He wanted as little to do with Jim as possible. Collapsing back onto his bed, he wrapped the sheets around himself, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. He began to recite potassium's chemical compounds and their molar masses in his head as a distraction.

He lay there for what felt like an age.

At long last, he lifted his head off the pillow and rolled over to face the clock again. Slender fingers pressed down upon the _Glow_ button.

3:36.

_Damn it. _He groaned, cursing his brain under his breath – _why can't I just sleep like an ordinary person?_

"_Because you're not ordinary_," a soft voice murmured in reply.

The singsong Irish tones sounded suspiciously like Moriarty's.

Sherlock jolted upwards, eyes widening, scanning the room desperately for a second before realising he'd merely imagined it. With an exasperated sigh, he contemplated lying back down in his warm, comfy bed – but knew it was useless. _I'll never be able to get back to sleep._

_Unless…_

He sighed. _All right – just this once. To set the curiosity aside and actually get some peace afterwards._

He untangled himself from the blankets, his feet shuffling on the carpet, ready to shift his weight onto them. He stood shakily, steadying himself with his mind palace. _I can't believe I'm doing this,_ he complained to himself.

He headed for the door – and paused. He was in his birthday suit. That wouldn't do – what if, by some bizarre chance, Moriarty was awake? With a gulp, he returned to his bed and grabbed one of the thinner sheets, wrapping it around his naked form. _Better._ Finally, his hand grasped the door handle and slowly twisted it open.

His bare feet padded on the floor as he stealthily made his way to the living room. _Why the hell am I doing this?_ he asked himself yet again, but he didn't dwell on the thought; it was pointless anyway. He was going to watch Moriarty sleep – or not sleep, depending on the lunatic's schedule – and that was that. It was merely to check. To find out more about his enemy. It was a perfect opportunity; who could blame him?

He heard a noise – whispering. He froze in his tracks, heart leaping. Silence. Must have been his imagination again.

Light filtered weakly through the living room windows, presumably from the lamp post positioned outside. Sherlock breathed shallowly, quickly making out the shape of the criminal strewn on the sofa. _Asleep, then._ Avoiding furniture and making as little noise as possible, he crept closer and closer until he was standing right in front of the couch.

Moriarty's eyes fluttered open.

Panic swelled in Sherlock like a tide – but was hastily quelled as he saw that the man's pupils were glassy and unfocused. _He's dreaming_, Sherlock realised.

Moriarty's mouth cracked open, to suck in a rasping breath. His hands, when Sherlock glanced at them, were trembling. He frowned. _Something's wrong here._

Shakily, Jim's hoarse, hushed voice spilled from his lips.

Sherlock listened intently. At first Jim could form nothing but unintelligible fragments of words – but gradually these grew in coherence.

"_My name is – J-James… Moriarty…"_

What? _He never calls himself James. He never lets anyone call him James_. Sherlock blinked hard, running the words through his head again. They were unmistakable. What did this mean?

"_And I have… sinned… sssinned, I have–_"

Jim jerked suddenly, as though struck. A low moan slipped from him; Sherlock took a sudden step backwards. _What is this?_

Moriarty's breaths came quicker now, laced with desperation, dragging into his lungs. His whole body began to shudder, his glazed eyes widening to stare sightlessly at the ceiling.

_A nightmare. He's having a nightmare – of what?_ None of it seemed to add up. _Why would Jim, of all people, have nightmares like this...? Psychopaths don't feel guilt. They don't feel fear. This doesn't make sense._

"_I'm s-s-sorry._" Snatches of Jim's voice rose with traces of genuine terror. "_Please d… don't…_"

_Don't what? What's happening?_ Fear pricked through Sherlock's defences. _Is he going to be alright?_

Jim's voice trailed off into something akin to a sob. A pale, quivering hand rose weakly, imploringly, only to fall like a dead weight to his side. Sherlock couldn't believe what was happening. _What is all this? What's wrong with him?_

Before his horrified gaze, a single, thick tear leaked from the corner of one of Moriarty's sightless eyes, leaving a glistening trail on his cheek.

Sherlock stepped back, shaking his head in confusion and disbelief. _What did I just see? Oh, god, what have I done?_

Jim lay still, limp and shattered on the couch, eyes drifting shut but expression still contorted in suffering. Quietly but hastily, Sherlock made his way back across the room, ensuring he was a safe distance away before fleeing to the comfort of his own bedroom.

There he threw himself onto the bed and listened to the panicked hammering of his heart.

_What just happened? What have I done?_

He and sleep remained strangers for the rest of the night.

The bedroom door swung open.

Sherlock sprang up immediately, sharp eyes quickly settling upon the figure in the doorway.

Moriarty.

He glanced at his clock – 7:01. So the criminal wasn't too much of an early riser. Sherlock swallowed; for hours he'd done nothing but toss and turn in his bed, mind reeling at the memories of Jim breaking in his sleep. He felt worn out and absolutely awful.

Jim, on the other hand, looked completely fine – _more_ than fine – as he playfully flicked on the light switch. "Rise and _shine_, Sherlooock!" he sang merrily, the night's ordeal hidden without a trace. Sherlock decided it would be best to keep his mouth shut about that. _If he finds out I saw him…_

"May I have some privacy for a moment?" he asked courteously, self-consciously trying to adjust the blankets over his bare form.

Jim rolled his eyes. "Whatever." He turned to face the other way. Sherlock supposed that was the most he could ask for. "What's for breakfast?" Moriarty inquired brightly, occupying himself by examining the periodic table on the wall.

"I don't know. Mrs Hudson will–" Sherlock stopped in his tracks. _Mrs Hudson can't come in here_. "Actually, I'll, um… I'll go downstairs and get it later."

"When? I'm _starrr_ving."

"Around eight, perhaps. Eight thirty." Ensuring that the knots wrapping the sheets around him were securely in place and unlikely to break free to display him in all his glory to his nemesis, Sherlock stood, sighing, "Well, you can look now."

Jim spun around, took in the ramshackle 'clothing' with an appraising glance, and offered a wry grin. His hair was all ruffled up in random, adorable places. Sherlock cleared his mind of distracting thoughts.

"D'you have any more clothes I could borrow? Something like yesterday'd be nice."

Sherlock had lent him a pair of plain, grey, slightly oversized tracksuit bottoms and a white vest to sleep in, exposing more than just his muscular arms. He looked good in them. Scrap that, he looked great.

_Potassium chloride, KCl, molar mass: 74.5513 g·mol__−1__…_

Clearing his throat loudly, Sherlock pulled open the chest of drawers to let Jim contemplate the array of shirts again. Leaning over them, he picked out a crumpled white, cotton dress shirt; comfortable and casual. Unbuttoning it, he slipped it on over his vest – but not before Sherlock noticed something on his right shoulder which he hadn't before.

"Wait, what is that?" he asked before he could stop himself, referring to the strange series of thick white lines criss-crossing and weaving onto the criminal's back, diving out of sight beneath the vest.

"Rule number one violation," Moriarty responded coolly, one quick gaze daring the detective to question further.

_Please tell me those aren't what I think they are_. Again, he saw the trail of the spilled teardrop flickering in his mind, and forced himself to push it away. _I shouldn't have gone there. I shouldn't have seen that._

"Do you have any more trousers?" Jim asked.

Sherlock switched his attention to the clothing issues. "Um…" He struggled for a moment. "Mrs Hudson's washed the only ones I can think of that'd fit you. Sorry."

"'Ts OK. I'll just wear what I wore yesterday." He twirled out of the room to fetch the worn jeans.

Sherlock allowed himself a moment to breathe. _You're going to need to find out what last night was about soon enough,_ he told himself with frustration, _or you'll never find peace. God! Why does this man have to be so… complicated?_

"Look," he called out, making his way over to the living room again – daylight now streamed brightly through the windows. "We need to go out and buy more… supplies."

"Like what?" Jim looked up from fastening the jeans, which fit him snugly, clinging to his lean figure.

"Well, for example, we can't go on disinfecting and then re-using my toothbrush for the rest of your stay." The toothbrushes had presented a problem last night, and their solution had been the only one available.

"Fair enough." Jim stood, shifting his weight upon the balls of his feet. He ran a hand through his dark hair to tone down its fluffiness. In his ordinary outfit, he was so convincingly _normal_ that Sherlock found it a little unsettling.

"Also, I've been thinking." Sherlock swallowed. "When it comes to Sebastian Moran…"

Moriarty stilled. "…Yes?"

"We can use my Homeless Network," he pointed out. "They're everywhere, speedy and virtually undetectable."

Jim nodded his agreement. "That might help."

"I'll text them now." He reached for his phone, which was plugged into the living room wall. _Maybe I should move it somewhere else from now on_, he thought. _Just in case Jim hacks it or something_.

Rapidly, he composed a message to his operatives – all 96 of them. _The more, the merrier._

"Read me what you've written before you send it," Jim instructed.

Sherlock obliged. "'Looking for Sebastian Moran, aged 33. Ex-gunman in the British Army, currently a sniper in the employ of James–" Jim visibly winced, but said nothing– "Moriarty. Need him found for case as soon as possible. Keep yourselves hidden.' And I've attached the picture of him that you sent me."

"Get rid of my name," Moriarty told him immediately. "Just in case."

Sherlock obliged. "And where shall we meet them?"

"Of course – they can't come to Baker Street, can they?" Jim mused. "Somewhere within walking distance, though… Montagu Mansions. It's a small street, but the surroundings are populated and well-off enough for us not to look suspicious."

"Agreed."

_Looking 4 Sebastian Moran, 33. Ex-army gunman, now sniper. Need found ASAP 4 case. Keep hidden. If found text &amp; meet me Montagu Mansions, 9am.  
SH_

Ensuring the necessary file was attached, he sent it.

It was 7:14. Almost an hour until breakfast.

"Mrs Hudson never gets up before eight," Sherlock told him. "We might as well go to the supermarket now without worrying about her spotting you."

"Kay." Jim glanced down at his bare feet. "What about socks? Shoes?"

The socks weren't a problem – Sherlock returned briefly to his bedroom to fetch an extra pair – but the shoes were. Jim's expensive leather ones would never fit his new, casual outfit. "What size are you?" he asked, as he made his way over to the cupboard where his shoes were stored.

"6 ½." Jim shrugged. "I know – I have small feet."

"I've only got size 8." Biting his lip, Sherlock knelt to rummage through his shoe collection – and stopped.

John's old shoes sat at the back.

Size 7.

He must have forgotten them when he left…

The criminal's words swelled in his mind.

_How do you think you're going to get over John if you keep behaving like this?_

Swallowing and blinking his eyes hard, Sherlock summoned his courage and took them in his hands. They were worn and scruffy, slightly dusty: the epitome of ordinariness.

_You and John were never going to happen._

"Jim," he called out, voice frail.

Moriarty joined him. Sherlock handed them over without a word.

"Size 7," the criminal remarked, inspecting them briefly, leaving the obvious unspoken. "Should fit me."

_And now he's married, and going to have a baby…_

Sherlock stood up slowly, keeping his face impassive. Jim slid into the shoes, wriggled his toes. "Bit large, but they'll do."

Their eyes met. A brief moment of understanding passed between them.

Moriarty closed his eyes briefly, nodding slightly in acknowledgement.

"Keep it up," he whispered.

_It's working_. Sherlock could hardly believe it. _It's actually working._

Nodding back and flashing him a brief smile, he turned and grabbed his coat off a rack, handing an identical one to Jim – he had lots of coats. Turning the collar up as he hurtled down the stairs, he put on a pair of his own shoes before slipping a hand into his coat pocket. The tiny camera and microphone were still there. He felt an odd thrill at their touch.

It was a beautiful day – sunlight still illuminated the streets despite the January cold. Stuffing on his trusty blue scarf, he turned to check that Moriarty was following him as he shoved the front door open.

Lights flashed in his face.

He blinked and stumbled forward.

A mass of people surrounded him – more lights went off as cameras clicked and whirled, all of them aimed at his face. Microphones lunged towards him, a cacophony of voices overwhelming him –

"Mr. Holmes! Over here! Mr. Holmes!"

"Just give us one big smile–"

"One interview, eh? Just one–"

"What have you got to say, sir, about–"

"Is Moriarty really back, Mr. Holmes? What do you–"

_Reporters._

He spun around, but it was too late – Moriarty stood frozen in the doorway, bewilderment painted on his features.

It would only take a second for them to notice him–

"Jim! _RUN!_" Sherlock screamed.

Lights went off like sparklers as Moriarty heeded his cry, turning tail and fleeing back into 221B.

For a moment the reporters stood breathless with excitement – then rounded on Sherlock.

"Jim? Who's JIM?"

He took a step backwards.

_Oh no. What have I just done?_

"Have you found a new partner? Is he–"

"What are your relations–"

"One interview, Mr. Holmes–"

"Will this 'Jim' be–"

He ran back into the flat and slammed the door behind him.

_Please tell me that didn't just happen. Please tell me I didn't just –_

"Oh my _god_," he groaned aloud.

Moriarty sat at the foot of the stairs, watching him with a steely look in his eyes. He ran a stiff hand through his hair, jaw clenched tight.

"You've done it now," he told Sherlock quietly.

Sherlock buried his head in his hands.

_You've done it now._

Silence fell – thick and heavy, filled with dread.


	6. Consulting boyfriends

**JIM-LOCK HOME****  
****_Mysterious 'Jim' spotted at home of death-defying detective Sherlock Holmes – could he be his next John Watson?_**

"So the first article's up," Moriarty muttered, reading over Sherlock's shoulder.

The article then launched into an extremely suggestive contemplation of who exactly this "Jim" person could be, what role he could have in Sherlock's life, and even described Sherlock's warning cry as "full of desperate, raw emotion, unusual for the previously stoic detective".

"They think we're in a _relationship_," Sherlock sighed, stating the obvious. _Fantastic. More tabloid gossip._

The link hadn't been drawn to Moriarty, thankfully, and to the unknowing eye there could be no correlation – but Sherlock knew he would have no such luck when it came to his friends.

For the article was accompanied by a lucky shot of Jim's retreating figure. Although his back was to the camera, it wouldn't take long for his brighter companions to take the name into account, inspect the straight, dark locks and the short, muscular figure, and put two and two together.

It was 8:03, less than an hour since the event; Mrs Hudson was awake, the shopping remained undone, and an article was already up on the _Daily Mail _website. The news would make the headlines by tomorrow morning.

"This is a _mess_," Sherlock groaned, sinking deeper into his armchair.

"Why did you call me by my name?" Jim hissed by his ear. "Couldn't you just tell me to run?"

"I'm _sorry_," the detective apologised for the umpteenth time. "I'd got so used to calling you Jim like you told me to, and…"

"Oh, _whatever_." Moriarty straightened, rubbing his temples. He hadn't even taken John's shoes off – to spite the detective, perhaps?

"Well, at least nobody will see it yet–"

He was interrupted by the doorbell ringing.

Both of them froze.

Mrs Hudson's voice drifted up to them. "If it's those bloody reporters again, I swear I'll–"

Sherlock had barely had time to send Jim upstairs before Mrs Hudson had come storming out of her bedroom in her nightie, demanding to see what all the shouting was about. Her fury, when she found out, had been ghastly to see. The reporters had scampered away – although it was too late by then. The photos had been taken, the words had been heard: the damage was done.

Her voice now rose in pleasant surprise. "_John!"_

_Oh, no._

"Get out of sight," Sherlock instructed Jim, leaping to his feet, heart thumping. _This is going to end badly. Even if I pretend Moriarty just popped over to make some empty threats and left within the hour, John is _not_ going to be happy._

"Where?" Moriarty's untroubled, slow movements grated on the detective's nerves. Jim stretched majestically, flexing his muscles while giving him a withering look.

"The bathroom. Actually, no, my bedroom. Just _go!_" Jim raised a quizzical eyebrow. "…_Please_," Sherlock added through clenched teeth.

With a shrug and a final look of disdain, Moriarty sauntered into Sherlock's bedroom, the door slamming shut with a _thunk_.

Just in time. John's footsteps reached the top of the staircase and he shoved the front door open.

"Ah, John." Sherlock mimicked delighted surprise, forcing a smile. "Good to see you."

"_Sherlock_." John ignored the pleasantries, holding up a smartphone opened at the article which sent Sherlock's heart sinking. "What the _hell _is this?!"

The detective swallowed, stalling. "I suppose I… should have known you would have any news with my name in it on a notification system."

"Now don't get smart with _me_, Sherlock." John was spitting. _This is going to be hard to explain away._ "See this photograph? The name _Jim_?" He took a deep breath. "Jim _Moriarty?_ I mean–" He saw his restored armchair and, without thinking, sat down heavily in it to face the detective. "_Really_, Sherlock?"

"Yes, really." Sherlock decided to counterattack with a scathing tone. "Is there a problem?"

"A _problem?_" John laughed incredulously. "Yes, Sherlock. Yes, there is!"

"Why? As you can see, I'm alive. I'm in one piece. He left within the hour." The lie was heavy and uncomfortable on Sherlock's tongue, so he smothered it in further bitterness. "Besides, what's it to you? Just go away! Go back home to your pregnant_ wife_ and your _ordinary_ life without me."

John's mouth dropped open. He looked like he'd just been punched.

Guilt threatened to overcome Sherlock, but he fought it back. _No. I need John out of here._

"Can you blame me for being worried?" John finally managed, in a low voice.

"Worried_?_" Sherlock combated immediately. "_Worried?_ You've moved on, John. I'm no longer as important as I once was. You leave me for _months_ to attend to your wife and good on you, I mean–" Sherlock stopped himself, steadying his trembling voice. "Just don't expect me to just… sit around here, and wait for you to appear to… to_ boss me around_. I'm on my own now – you _left_ me on my own. You can't blame me for doing things without your _esteemed consent_."

John's eyes were wide with shock. Words failed him.

And then they heard the clapping.

Slow. Steady.

_Clap._

_Clap._

Almost mocking.

_Clap._

And Moriarty walked in.

The bedroom door made hardly a sound as it closed behind him. The consulting criminal had removed the shoes at last as well as Sherlock's socks, and his pretty, bare feet tread carefully on the wooden floorboards, like a dancer on a tightrope. A smile crept across his face, disarming, deadly.

_Clap. Clap._

John's eyes were filled with panic. He seemed paralysed, terror binding him into place.

Moriarty stopped beside Sherlock's chair, so close the detective could smell his aftershave on him – Jim had borrowed it that morning.

Sherlock felt nothing but emptiness inside.

_So this is how it's going to be..._

"Well _done_, Sherlock." Jim's voice was so tender, brimming with pride and a simple joy. Another _clap._ "I knew you could do it." The criminal's pale hand slid onto his enemy's right shoulder and squeezed, almost comfortingly. At last he turned to John, the grin never faltering. "Hello again, Doctor Watson." A little pause, broken by a chuckle. "Did _you_ miss me?"

John broke.

"_WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!_" He bolted out of the chair and stumbled back, raising his arms defensively. His eyes flicked manically between Sherlock and the psychopath beside him. "_Sherlock?!_ What the – you told me he – what the _HELL_ have you done?!"

"He stood up to you," Jim let his hand slip away from Sherlock's shoulder; the man felt a hollowness where it had been. "I'm sorry you didn't like it, but frankly, you deserve worse after all the pain you've been putting him through."

"No. Sherlock. _Explain_." John's hands were curled into fists; he took deep, shuddering breaths to quell the panic the sight of the criminal had caused. "This man, he – he tried to _blow me up _and you – _JESUS, _Sherlock!"

"_I'll_ explain," Moriarty told him simply, before leaning over, gripping Sherlock's jaw with one hand and crushing their lips together.

The kiss was slow, yet fierce and passionate. Sherlock closed his eyes, taking in the feel of it, the rush of endorphins leaving him breathless. Jim was a ridiculously good kisser. Thrills pulsed through him; he parted his lips, letting the criminal's tongue snake through them and slide across his lower teeth, possessively. He slowly attempted the same: Moriarty tasted good – crisp and cool. Sherlock realised his hand had sprung up and was now brushing against the man's smooth jawline; the touch sent shivers down his spine.

All too soon, the criminal pulled gently away – and reality came crashing back.

_Wait, _what_ have I just done?!_

John's poor face was ashen. He gaped at the pair like a goldfish; Sherlock had to drag his eyes away from his beautiful nemesis's deep, dark gaze to turn back to his best friend.

Silence. Neither of them knew what to say.

_I can't believe I just let him do that._

Moriarty smirked – he was winning, and he knew it.

"I'm staying here for a few days, a week, maybe two," he informed the good doctor, each word seeming to drain some of the life from the unfortunate man. "Sherlock and I reached the agreement yesterday, for reasons which are none of your concern."

"But… but…" John suddenly seemed to remember that he needed to breathe and sucked desperate lungfuls of air from the room. His voice was feeble, dimmed by shock. "W-what…"

"New Year's Eve." Sherlock spoke for the first time. His own voice was surprisingly unchanged, although his mind and his heart were still racing. "Does it still have to be here at Baker Street?"

John blinked. "You… just…" His voice faltered, so he abandoned the subject. "After all this you're… you're worried about _New Year's?_"

"Of course." Sherlock rolled his eyes. He couldn't understand why he felt so unconcerned and detached, but used it to his advantage, reasserting superiority. "Everyone's going to be there – Lestrade, Molly, _Mary–"_ Spite laced her name, which he toned down a bit–_ "_and we were even thinking of inviting my brother this time. But I never even intended _you_ to find out about…" His gaze snapped back to the criminal by his side. "Him."

"_We_," John pointed out hoarsely. "You and… _Moriarty_… so, what, are you a – is it a _thing_ now? Just – you and Jim? Consulting… boyfriends?"

"He's not my _boyfriend_," Sherlock dismissed, although the words echoed in his mind. _Consulting boyfriends…_ that had a ring to it, as Mrs Hudson would say.

"Oh! Right! Of course not!" John laughed weakly. Moriarty just looked thoughtful.

"So, yes." Sherlock clasped his hands together, tone casual, as though inquiring about nothing more than the latest murder case. "New Year's. Can't it be held at yours?"

"_No_." The doctor was being stubborn on purpose, he could tell – a little act of defiance. _It's kind of pathetic_, Sherlock thought with a stab of annoyance. _Why can't he just see things from my point of view?_

"Jim and I are on a _case_–"

"A _case!_" John positively shrieked, a disbelieving smile on his worn features. "What sort of _case _could _possibly_ require–"

"One which is _none of your concern_." Jim's voice had dipped dangerously low. It thrummed in Sherlock's ears, and he found himself nodding slightly as he listened. "Like he said – you abandoned him, so he's doing things alone now. If he wants to take on a case with me, he takes on a case with me. You've no say in this matter anymore."

"You're a _psychopath_," John spat at him. Moriarty's right eye twitched. He said nothing.

"That was uncalled for, John," Sherlock found himself saying.

John stared at him.

"I can't believe this," he stated, shaking his head repeatedly. "Look, sod this. Right? Now you two go chasing your – your little _romance_–" He forced himself to say the word, then looked like he'd been dealt a vicious blow. "I'm _going_. And as for your _New Year_, it's staying here, and I'm telling the others for their own good–"

He was cut off by Sherlock hurtling over and snatching his arm in a vice-like grip.

The detective's gaze was cold as ice.

"You tell _no-one_," he snarled under his breath, bringing their faces inches apart. John's eyes brimmed with horror. "If you don't want to help us, then _fine_. But don't you _dare_ make everything worse."

John yanked his arm away, trembling slightly. Only his left hand remained perfectly still and steady.

"What happened to you?" he asked, tone helpless and pleading.

"_I _did!" Moriarty called out. Their eyes flickered over to him; he stood with his arms crossed, watching with an air of mild interest. He offered them a harmless smile.

John's voice dripped with disdain. "What, the psychopath and the sociopath. A fine couple _you'll_ make." He stepped back, scanning Sherlock's expression one last time. If he was searching for empathy and trust, he found none.

Sadness slumped his shoulders and shadowed his gaze. Finally admitting defeat, he grasped the door handle, before turning back to quietly ask just one more question.

"Who else knows?"

"No-one," Sherlock replied immediately. He felt a bit sorry for the doctor. _Maybe we were a tad harsh... But then again, he _has_ completely 'abandoned' me. What right does _he_ have to be angry?_

John nodded sombrely, his eyes fixed on the floor. "Just… when he's gone…" He struggled. "Tell me, okay?"

Sherlock softened his tone. "Okay. Give my love to Mary."

The front door opened and drifted slowly shut. John was gone.

"That was _impressive!_" Jim laughed behind him.

Sherlock spun around. The criminal's eyes twinkled. He looked _adorable_.

_He kissed me,_ the detective thought, recalling the bittersweet feeling of the man's lips against his. _He actually… kissed me._

"What was that about?" he managed.

"Oh, John was going to figure it out eventually." Jim skipped over to his chair and sat down in it, crossing his legs. "I sped up the process before things could get uglier."

Sherlock joined him, returning to his own armchair. _I didn't mean that_, he almost said, but swallowed it. No doubt Moriarty would get to _that_ soon enough.

"Speaking of which, well _done!_" Jim gave a low wolf whistle, raising his eyebrows. He looked so happy that Sherlock could hardly keep a small smile off his face. "You really took my words to heart, didn't you? At this rate, you'll be over him even _before_ we get started."

"Get started on… what?" Sherlock swallowed. He knew the answer, but wanted to hear the criminal say it. Just to be sure.

"_Consulting boyfriends_. That's a great term, isn't it? You thought so too." Sherlock didn't bother denying it. A sly look entered Jim's eyes. "So – did you _like _the French kiss?"

The detective chose his words carefully. "You… you're a good kisser," he admitted.

"Better than John?"

Moriarty was testing him. He made himself give the truthful answer. "Better than John."

"Perfect." Jim heaved a satisfied sigh.

"But why did…" Sherlock's voice trailed off. For one so well-spoken he had a hard time putting the events into words.

"To prove a point to John, I suppose." Jim shrugged. "Does it even matter? I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a _teensy_ glimpse of what we could have. And you can't say you didn't like it."

He _had_ liked it. A lot. Too much.

"So, y'know." Moriarty spread his hands, winked teasingly. "Any time you feel like changing your mind – I'm _rrright_ here."

_I don't know._ Sherlock knew it was wrong to even contemplate a 'relationship' with his arch-nemesis. And yet it had felt so… _right_…

_You know what? Just leave it as it is. _With that, he settled his internal discussion. _Something might come up. But until then, leave it._

"Now then," Jim interrupted his thoughts. "Fetch us some breakfast, will you, my dear?"


	7. Both of you

"So."

Sherlock scanned the eight eager faces before him. Their names refused to come to mind, but their phone numbers did, seeming to glow in the air before them. He was having a hard time concentrating – the events of the previous hours still buzzed in his mind. And the lack of names was frankly very irritating.

"You." He pointed into the face of the one furthest to the left. "You're One." He moved on to the woman standing beside One. "You're Two."

Jim snorted behind him. Sherlock ignored the consulting criminal and continued numbering his recruits, until he was no longer faced with a mass of complicated, nameless people but eight neatly numbered and organised informants.

"Ain't you gonna give _me_ a number, boss?" Wiggins leaned against the wall, looking bored.

"I know _your_ name, _Billy_. Now, then." Sherlock directed his gaze at One. "What do you have?"

One's voice was gruff, his dishwasher-blond hair dishevelled, but his green eyes – like the others' – glowed with a faint intelligence. "I texted you the details, sir–"

"Yes, yes." Sherlock plucked his phone from his pocket, finding the matching phone number and opening the corresponding message log. An image filled the screen: despite its blurriness, it was unmistakably Sebastian Moran. "Where did you find him?"

"Camden," came the instant reply. "Walking along Parkhill Road. Disappeared into number 7."

He heard a sharp intake of breath behind him, and spun around. "Does it ring a bell?"

"One of my agents has a haunt there," Moriarty explained. "Coleridge, his name is. Respectable man – nobody suspects he's one of mine." He smirked, but quickly wiped it off his face. "We haven't been in touch with him for years. I don't know what Seb would want from him."

Sherlock nodded quickly, stringing a map together in his mind. "And what time was this?"

"7:15, just after you texted me. Stroke of luck," One told him. "I couldn't linger long. All I can say's he was still there at 7:18."

"Excellent. Thank you." He turned to Two. "And you?"

"8:02. Hackney," the dark-haired woman replied in a shrill voice. "14 Darnley Road."

Sherlock turned to observe Jim's reaction.

Their eyes met, and Moriarty nodded. "Another one – his name's Ward. Again, we haven't seen him for a while."

The list of names and locations continued, each with their accompanying photos. The sightings were all around twenty minutes apart, in differing locations; but each time, the addresses Sebastian had visited – or the whereabouts of where he had been seen – corresponded to members of Moriarty's old network.

"He's definitely contacting my old agents," Jim confirmed. "And so far, they're all fairly loyal to him."

"What for, though?"

"Support, I assume." Jim swallowed, clenching his jaw. "Gaining powerful allies for help in finding me. We need to keep a low profile."

"He seems to be travelling from the Eastern outskirts in a spiral towards the centre." Sherlock closed his eyes, visualising the map and realising something with a jolt. "He should be nearing _us_."

"Let's get back to Baker Street. Keep us informed," Jim instructed the eight members of the Homeless Network. "Stay in this area, and any areas he might move on to. The moment you find anything, text Sherlock."

"You've all done well." The detective pulled a wad of fifty-pound notes from inside his coat, splitting them between the operatives who murmured their thanks. "And remember – not a word of this to anyone."

Nodding hurriedly, they each took their leave, blending back into the shadows.

Sherlock turned to Moriarty with a troubled frown. "Is Moran planning something?"

"Definit'ly," Wiggins interrupted, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. "'E's working 'is way towards the centre. Narrowin' it down."

"Yes. He's not sure where you are but trying to sniff you out." Sherlock sighed wearily. "At least we'll be able to predict his next move."

"Not for long," Jim countered. "He's careful. He knows he's set a pattern and won't keep it up for more than a few hours."

"We could stop him now. Get Lestrade involved–"

"NO!" Moriarty cut him off sharply. "Do you realise how dangerous this man is? We can't confront him without a proper plan. People will get killed and he'll _easily_ escape."

Sherlock met his gaze levelly. "I thought you didn't _care_ about people getting killed."

Jim smiled, his voice softening, deepening. "But I know _you_ do."

"Are you two married or somethin'?" Wiggins sniffed, watching them with a curious smile.

"Or something." Jim didn't take his eyes off his enemy's.

"For a psychopath and mass murderer, yer not as bad as all the papers say y'are," Bill continued. "I'd say yer quite nice, really. Didja _really_ rob the Tower of London?"

"Not for long," Moriarty dismissed. "I got bored."

"You were _caught_," Sherlock contradicted.

"Only because I _let_ them catch me."

"Look, we really need to get back home." Sherlock wrapped his coat tighter around himself, glancing at his watch – 10:23. They'd delayed the meeting by an hour, and it had taken a further five minutes for everyone to show up. "Wiggins, thank you. I'll add extra to your monthly salary."

"Always a pleasure, boss." Standing up straight, Bill nodded at them both before slinking away, leaving them on their own.

All that remained for them now was a return to Baker Street.

They never got there.

A police car was parked outside 221B, lights still flashing. Sherlock took one glance at it and his eyes widened.

"Lestrade."

Jim darted to the side as he reached the door, shoving it open. Sure enough, he found the inspector quickly making his way up the stairs to the flat.

"George," he called out to him.

Lestrade jumped in surprise, then spun around, annoyed. "How many times do I have to tell you, Sherlock – it's _Greg._"

Sherlock looked sheepish. "Sorry. Greg."

Moriarty hadn't entered yet – he stood awkwardly beside the door, flashing him a quizzical glance. _Do I go in? Introduce myself?_

Sherlock gestured briefly at him, trying to make it inconspicuous: _wait a moment._

"So, why are you here, Greg?" He stood up straighter, adjusted his coat collar.

Lestrade descended the stairs, running a hand through his newly cropped, silvering haircut. "We're a bit stuck on a case," he explained, in his gruff, gravelly voice. "It's a murder, a young girl. Crawford Street."

"Yes, we – I mean, _I_ was just nearby." Sherlock resisted the urge to look back at Jim, who no doubt was listening intently. "What's unusual about it then?"

"Well, her name was Helena Adamson-Smith," Greg began. "Third floor, no signs of forced entry. The window was open just a crack. She was in her bedroom – killed by a bullet wound to the temple. No sign of the murderer."

"Interesting, but…" _Do I really have time to go on a case like this?_

Moriarty dropped something with a clatter.

Hearing the noise, Sherlock couldn't help but instinctively spin around, and found himself meeting the criminal's gaze. Jim had dropped his phone on purpose, and was now gesticulating wildly at Sherlock, eyes wide. He quickly mouthed words at him: _Helena Adamson-Smith – take the case – say yes – take the case!_

"Yes, I'll take the case," Sherlock told Lestrade immediately. _I wonder what this is about… Helena Adamson-Smith? Never heard of her._

Greg's shoulders sagged with relief. "Thanks, mate."

As he headed to the door, Sherlock raised a hand to stop him.

"On one condition."

_If I can tell John,_ he thought firmly to himself, _I can tell Lestrade. He'll find out eventually anyway._

The worried crease had reappeared between the inspector's eyebrows. "What is it?"

Sherlock took a deep breath.

"There's… someone… I need to bring with me."

Lestrade's eyes widened in surprise, then a disbelieving smile swept across his handsome, boyish features. "What, is it that _Jim_ guy the papers are going mad over?"

Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. _So he's seen the article too. _"Well… yes," he answered hesitantly.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "Well, what d'you know? I hadn't thought there was any truth in that. But, uh…" He shrugged. "Yeah, it's fine, bring him along. Won't be breaking more rules than I already am."

"But Greg, it's…" The detective sighed, biting his lip and avoiding his gaze. "Um… the thing is…"

"…_I'm_ Jim."

Moriarty appeared in the gap between Sherlock and the doorway, standing casually with his hands in his pockets. His face was earnest, a friendly smile across his features.

Sherlock felt a stab of muted annoyance. _He's never going to let me be the one to introduce him, is he?_

Lestrade's face slowly paled in shock as he recognised the consulting criminal. He took a step back with a gasp, disbelief battling against fear to possess his features. Words failed him.

"I'm sorry, Greg." Like it had been with John, Sherlock's voice was unexpectedly calm and steady. "Moriarty and I have… business to attend to, so he's going to have to be staying with me for quite a while."

"Nice to see you again, inspector." Jim raised a hand in a salute. "You don't have to arrest me this time."

Lestrade gaped silently for a few more moments before his brain functions kicked in; in his state of shock, they reset to default and instructed his body to opt for the most appropriate action in the situation.

He slowly lifted his hands to his face, and facepalmed.

Jim and Sherlock exchanged an amused glance. Well, it was one way of letting the news sink in.

Greg buried his face in his hands, rubbing fingernails against his temples, as though attempting to block out the whole world and make it stop existing. He exhaled for the longest time, allowing the horrible mixture of shock, exasperation and _I-don't-even-know-anymore_ to seep out.

It took a while longer for him to find the right words.

"Do I even… _want_… to know?"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock apologised again, helplessly.

Lestrade tried to remove his hands from his face, but apparently facing the real world would still require too much effort.

"Don't mind me. I'm not the murderer _this_ time." Jim rested a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, squeezing lightly. The touch was comforting. "I only want to help."

"Oh, whatever!" Lestrade ripped his palms away and gave a short, defeated huff. "You faked _your_ death too?" A quick burst of weak laughter. "Well, come along then, whatever – Oh my god! I don't even – You know what? Just –" He rubbed his eyes again, blinking hard. "Go on. Whatever Sherlock says. Go on."

"_Thank_ youuu!" With a charming grin, Moriarty tugged on Sherlock's shoulder to make him step elegantly to the side, freeing the doorway.

Shaking his head, Greg took slow, laborious steps towards the police car, fumbling in his jacket pocket to find the keys. He kept shooting quick, helpless glances at Jim, each time snapping his gaze away looking like he'd tasted something sour.

The car door swung open. Lestrade stood staring blankly at the interior before coming back to his senses.

"Uh, yeah. Go on in." Another regrettable peek at Jim. "You too."

Moriarty clambered in first, his hand sliding down to hold Sherlock's and tugging him in beside him. Sherlock was too busy filing away Lestrade's reaction to be bothered. _So someone with his character traits and his situation would react like this… whereas someone with John's traits would react like he did. _He then began to ponder other methods of revealing Jim to his friends.

"We could've just _walked_ there, inspector," Jim said aloud, allowing a false whine into his soft voice. He flashed the rapt detective a quick, cheeky smile.

"It's standard procedure," Lestrade mumbled in response. The knuckles gripping the steering wheel were white. "…Not that any of this is _standard_."

"Are the murdered girl's fathers home?" Jim asked abruptly.

"One of them is – wait," Lestrade spun around momentarily, frowning in disbelief. "How do _you_ know she has two dads?"

"Because I do," he stated dismissively, before turning back to Sherlock. "Well, we're heeere, Sherly!"

Looking slightly miffed at the response to his own question – or rather, the lack of it – Greg parallel-parked before a line of flats, beside another police car placed there. The front door of one of the buildings was wide open, yellow police tape visible within it declaring POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS.

Lestrade opened the car door for them again, his gaze fixed firmly upon the building where the crime had taken place.

"Come along, then…" He paused, bit his lip, then coarsely added, "…both of you."


	8. You jealous?

Rich red hair spilled around the girl's fallen figure like blood. Her green eyes, framed by long, curling lashes, stared sightlessly at the ceiling, rosy lips slightly parted. She had been beautiful, freckles adorning her button nose, slender limbs splayed out at unnatural angles. She had fallen slightly on her side. The cause of her death was obvious: a round, neat bullet hole in the centre of her forehead, from which blood slowly trickled out. An excellent, long-distance shot.

As Jim inspected the body beside him, Sherlock's thoughts strayed to Anderson and Donovan.

Lestrade had begun to explain the situation to them, but Moriarty – being the drama queen he was – obviously had to intervene, revealing himself to them on his own terms. Namely by grabbing Donovan by the arm and, with an unfaltering, wolfish smile, telling her in detail what his agents would do to her family if she breathed a word of his reappearance to anyone. Sherlock had watched in amusement; the criminal was highly convincing, despite knowing full well that all of his threats were bluffs.

Jim had ended the terrorising session with a nonchalant glance at Anderson and a generic "that goes for you, too". The unfortunate two still hadn't quite regained the ability to talk, and were now downstairs with one of the girl's fathers.

The window, as Greg had mentioned earlier, was opened just a crack. Before it stood a chair facing a desk on the adjacent wall; the girl had clearly been seated there when she was shot, judging by the blood dripping slickly over it.

Sherlock walked over and, without opening the window further, inspected the outside view. The apartment was like many in the area: old, slightly decorated, middle-class. A grove of trees stood to the left side of the opposite street. A car drove along the road and disappeared round the corner; a man exited one of the flats, took a questioning glance at the police cars parked along the street, and began to walk away. Other than that, the place was deserted.

Sherlock smirked. This was too easy.

"The murderer shot her through the window," he declared.

Lestrade frowned at him. "What?"

"It's _obvious!_" The detective gestured at him to come closer; Jim followed Greg as they stepped over the cooling corpse to observe the view.

"But the window wasn't open wide enough," the inspector began. "And if she was sat at the desk, how come the bullet wound was in her forehead and not the side of her head?"

"She must have turned to look at him," Jim explained for him. His gaze met Sherlock's, and he gave him a brief, smug smile. "She must have seen him before. Perhaps she was watching him leave, or he called her name – not many people called Helena, so that'd attract her attention."

"Watching him leave?" Greg caught on sharply. "So, wait – the murderer was in here?!"

"Perhaps not in this _room_, but certainly in this building just before he killed her."

"How do you know this?!" He stared at the criminal in alarm. _Perhaps he even thinks Moriarty's the murderer._

Jim ignored him. "Is Charles Adamson still here?"

"Charles…? Oh. One of the fathers." Lestrade scratched his head. "Yeah. He's downstairs. Being treated for shock, of course, the poor man."

Moriarty had a knowing look in his eyes, which Sherlock caught on to. "I think," he said slowly, "we should go and interview him."

"That's the last thing he needs right now!" Greg exclaimed. "A psychopath and his boyfriend demanding to know things about his murdered daughter – that'd _kill_ him!"

"Hang on." Sherlock blinked at him. "You think Jim's my _boyfriend_?"

Lestrade gave him a withering glance. "Well, yeah."

"How come?!" _We didn't even – kiss or anything… He's not even my boyfriend!_

"You should take a look at yourselves," Greg responded bluntly. "In any case, an interview is out of the question."

"An interview would confirm the murderer!" Jim insisted. Sherlock was still puzzled. _You should take a look at yourselves?_

"What do you mean?" Lestrade said sharply. "You… you already know who the murderer is?"

"Almost certainly," Moriarty replied, his eyes daring the inspector to argue.

Greg simply sighed. "Oh, whatever." He turned to Sherlock. "You go with him downstairs. But… be gentle, eh?"

"He's _not_ my boyfriend," Sherlock found himself saying.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Greg gave him an appraising glance. "_Moriarty_, though… Just make sure he doesn't kill you while you fuck or whatever, alright?"

The detective cringed at the thought. _Sex is far too primitive – but for god's sake! Why won't he believe me?_

"Don't worry, I'll save that for later." With a wink at Greg, Jim grabbed Sherlock's arm and pulled him away.

_Oh no you won't_, Sherlock almost said, but stopped himself, unsure if he meant the killing or the sex.

The pair made their way downstairs, where a man sat at a table, head cradled in his hands. He was in his late thirties, lean and blond; he had clearly been athletic in his youth, but had now softened slightly. Sobs racked his body, tears dripping down his fingers. Donovan and Anderson sat on either side of him but, upon seeing Moriarty, leapt to their feet and backed swiftly away.

Sensing this, Charles Adamson looked up, green eyes still streaming. When he saw Jim, however, they widened, and he quickly struggled to stand.

"_Boss_," he gasped.

And all of a sudden it made sense. The location of the murder, Jim's reaction to girl's name, his knowing who the father was, his deciding Sebastian was the murderer – _this man was one of his agents._ How could Sherlock not have realised earlier?

Realising the detective had finally understood everything, Moriarty gave him a brief nod of acknowledgement before turning back to Charles.

"Sit back down, Adamson," he told him patiently. "You're in shock. All I need is for you to answer my questions, and I'll do everything I can."

Charles didn't take his eyes off Jim, and Sherlock noticed that they were filled with a strange kind of respect. No, it was far stronger than that – this was… _worship._

"Boss." The agent's voice was choked with tears, but full of devotion. "I didn't think you'd come back for me."

"First things first." Jim drew back the chair before Charles and sat down in front of him, indicating the spot beside him for Sherlock. The detective joined him. "When did Moran visit you?"

"About half an hour ago." Adamson completely ignored Sherlock, his awed attention trained fully on the consulting criminal. _He must be one of Jim's most powerful allies._ Further answers began to click into place. _If Moran visited Charles to ask for help in defeating Moriarty… yet he clearly revers Jim…_

"Did he ask for your help in capturing and killing me?"

A shudder ran through Charles at the thought. "Yes."

Jim offered him a small smile, which didn't escape Sherlock's notice. _Why is he being so… empathetic?_ He looked back and forth between them. _There's something going on here._

"And you didn't–"

"Of _course_ I didn't, boss!" Adamson cried out, almost manically. "I would _never_ – not for anything in the world would I ever betray you!"

"I know, Charles." Moriarty reached over and took his hand, squeezing it comfortingly before Sherlock's startled eyes. "Thank you. I knew I could count on you."

Charles's face crumpled again. "But when I refused, I – I never thought…"

"I'm so sorry this had to happen." Jim's voice was filled with seemingly genuine concern. "I really am. Moran has gone insane. He's sworn to destroy me."

"But _why?_" Charles sobbed. "_I_ never treated you like this. I never even dreamt of it."

_Hang on… '_I _never treated you like this'…?_

"A lot of things went wrong," Moriarty explained softly. "He couldn't handle all of it…"

"I haven't seen either of you in _years_," Adamson choked out. "And he _knew _I'd never agree. Why did he – why did he have to–" He broke down crying again.

Moriarty glanced over at Sherlock. "Do you think we've heard enough?"

_Absolutely not_. But he knew Jim was talking in terms of the case. "Yes."

"Thank you, Charles." Jim stood, leaning over to trace a thin line with his fingertips on the man's glistening cheek. Sherlock stared. "I promise we'll find Sebastian, Charles, and we'll make him pay for this."

Adamson looked up, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Thank you, boss."

Moriarty's expression actually softened. "It was a pleasure seeing you again."

"You too, boss." Charles bit his lip, before adding weakly – "Boss?"

"Yes?"

He looked over at Sherlock for the first time. "Is he…?"

He didn't need to finish the sentence for Jim to understand. "Not yet, but he will be," he replied with a smile, which quickly faded. "Promise me you'll stay strong."

The agent pursed his lips, fighting back the tears. "I promise."

Jim nodded. "If you ever need anything…"

"Thank you, boss."

Moriarty turned to Sherlock, who was absorbing the situation in bewilderment. "Let's go."

Wordlessly, they made their way back up the stairs to the crime scene. The detective took one glance behind him before he left, at the man who sat crying at the table with his head in his hands; the man who, somehow, had made Moriarty seem so… _human_.

"Go on." Lestrade stood with his notepad and pencil, looking for all the world like a student about to receive his exam syllabus.

"The murderer was Sebastian Moran," Sherlock began. "Used to be in the Army; the best sniper in England. As for the murder…" He clasped his hands together. "Half an hour ago, Moran had been speaking with Adamson downstairs. They reached a disagreement, and he stormed out of the house." He strode over to the window, gestured outside. "At this hour, the street is empty. Moran looks up and sees Charles's daughter in her third-floor bedroom. Her window is slightly open."

"You're not _possibly_ suggesting–"

"_Look_," Sherlock cut Greg off. "The grove of trees – he was right there. He saw a perfect opportunity, and took it. All he needed was to attract her attention."

"A shot like that is _impossible_," Lestrade scoffed. "Gravity itself was working against him!"

"His aim is perfect. He's expertly trained." Moriarty spoke for the first time. "Someone like Sebby'd enjoy the shot as a quick, perfect challenge."

"He probably called her name or something; she turned briefly; he used his lower angle to fire through the crack in the window." Jim nodded at Sherlock's explanation, adding, "He'd probably threatened Charles with the rifle, and tucked it inside his jacket to disassemble later, meaning it was at hand."

"So that's it then." Lestrade twirled the pen in his fingers. "He makes a miraculous shot and kills her in public."

"It's easier than it seems," Moriarty assured him.

_Coming from him, that's not exactly comforting_, Sherlock thought as Greg winced.

"Now, we get to what _really_ matters." The criminal spread his hands. "The _why_."

"Tell me, then." Lestrade's voice was filled with resigned exasperation at having to deal with two smug geniuses at once.

Jim caught his eye, gave him a twisted smile. "Why do you think?"

The inspector swallowed hard, scrambled for something off the top of his head. "Uh… well… Hate crime? Perhaps? He didn't approve of her… gay parents?"

Moriarty actually laughed aloud at that. Greg's cheeks reddened.

"The murder wasn't just a punishment," the criminal informed him, voice dipping silkily low. "It was a lesson to Charles."

"Why would he need a lesson?" Lestrade sounded even more annoyed than earlier.

"Adamson had refused to support Moran in a certain… _task_ he aimed to achieve." Jim sighed deeply. "Sebastian wasn't impressed, and left. When he saw the girl, he decided to employ a quick display of his power and brutality in order to force Charles into submission."

"So Helena had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time." Greg grimaced.

"Yes." Sherlock gathered his coat tighter around himself. "A highly unfortunate event."

"So we're looking for one Sebastian Moran, then?" Lestrade scribbled down further notes. "Are you _sure_?"

"Yes, but don't bother." Jim met Sherlock's eyes and motioned towards the door: _we should go soon._ "You won't ever catch him. He's far too well-trained."

"Well what do I tell her dads, then?" A brief expression of despair twisted Greg's features. "We can't just give up."

"Oh, no. We've a far better idea." Sherlock stepped back over the corpse, making his way over to the door before turning back to Lestrade. "Tell them that _we're_ going to find him. And that _we'll_ make him pay."

"Sherlock, I'm letting you in on a case, you _can't_ just–" Lestrade's protests were cut off short as the detective closed the door behind him, standing with Moriarty in the apartment's main corridor. There was nobody else about.

"Well, let's get back to Baker Street, then!" Jim chirped, reaching over to tug at Sherlock's sleeve. But the detective hesitated.

"Jim…" he tried.

"Yes, of course – you've got questions." Jim ran a hand through his ruffled hair, stuck his hands into his pockets and impatiently waited.

"Charles Adamson–"

"–was one of my agents, yes." He sounded bored.

A tense silence stretched out between them.

"Alright, _fine!_" Jim conceded with another weary sigh. "He and I _used_ to be a couple. _Waaay_ before Sebby. Like, twenty years ago or something."

Sherlock drew back a little, nodded. _I knew it_.

"We were _teens_!" Moriarty shrugged. "I'd only just started my criminal empire. He's been there from the very beginning."

"But if it was so long ago," Sherlock interjected, "why that… that _worship_ of you?"

"We broke up on good terms," Jim said nonchalantly. "I liked him. He'd helped me a bit during the early stages so I decided to look after him, y'know?"

"How?" A slightly bitter feeling had risen within Sherlock, which he couldn't quite name. It bothered him a little, but he ignored it.

"This and that." Moriarty gave him a bright smile, which only made him feel worse. "He met someone else, started a family; if he needed money, I'd give him some. If he needed to repay the odd favour, I'd do that for him. I just _helped_ a little."

"So you have a soft spot for him."

Jim flashed him a sly, sideways glance. "You jealous?"

_Jealous?_

"No," Sherlock mumbled. _I'm not _jealous_. Why would I be?_

Jim chuckled. "Oh, Sherly. You needn't be. You'll have it all once you let yourself."

"Let myself what?" His tone was a trifle sharper than he'd meant it to be.

"Let yourself have it _aaall!_" Jim sang unhelpfully.

It grated on Sherlock's nerves. _For god's sake, does he have to be so vague?_

Moriarty sighed prettily. "I'm staaarving. Can we fetch a bite to eat? We could go to Angelo's!"

"How do _you_ know about Angelo's?"

Jim ignored him, floating towards the open door. "Italian… mmm."

Sherlock had no choice but to follow. "No. We're going back home, and I'll ask Mrs Hudson to make us something."

Moriarty groaned in annoyance. "You spoilsport."

"Inconspicuous, remember?" Sherlock pointed out. "We can't go out in public like this. We'll be _recognised_."

"Ugh, whatever." Jim straightened his shirt, stretching it tightly over his muscles. Obviously it didn't escape the detective's attention; in fact, judging by Moriarty's sly little smile, was precisely for that reason. Sherlock looked away uncomfortably. _What the hell does he want, really?_

"Baker Street it is, then, O my master." Jim stepped out into the sunlight and spread his arms wide, basking in it. It was, after all, a rare event in Britain.

With a sigh, Sherlock began the walk back home.


	9. Forgive me

"This isn't _lunch_," Jim complained. "This is _breakfast_."

Sherlock glanced down at the meal Mrs Hudson had prepared for them – or rather, for him. While his own plate held a delightful combination of sausages, mashed potatoes and buttered crumpets for him to pick at, Jim's vegetarian tastes had troubled the landlady, who had replaced the sausages with some basic scrambled eggs.

"I'm going to die of malnutrition," Moriarty continued to lament. "I don't have enough _protein_. I _knew_ we should have gone to Angelo's."

Sherlock ignored him. The criminal wasn't being serious and there were more pressing matters to deal with.

"As for Moran…" he began instead.

Jim froze for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice had hardened, the joking tone gone. "Yes?"

Sherlock pushed his plate away. Eating and digesting would only slow down his thought processes. "What do we do about him?"

"We find him," Jim replied simply. His own plate remained untouched; neither of them had eaten a morsel.

"How?"

Jim shrugged, but his stance was still defensive. "We'll find a way. It'll have to be pretty spectacular."

"That's not the point," Sherlock dismissed. "What do we do once we find him?"

Moriarty remained silent, staring down at his full plate. Sherlock leaned back in his armchair and waited.

"I'll talk to him," the criminal replied at last, still not meeting his eyes.

"_Then_ what?" Sherlock allowed exasperation into his tone. "Do we hand him over to the police?"

"Of course not!" Jim looked amused by the idea, but the light in his eyes quickly dimmed. "I'll… deal with him."

"Deal with him how?" The detective pressed further, ignoring Moriarty's obvious discomfort.

"When the time comes, we'll both see," Jim declared firmly. His tone was final: the discussion was closed.

Silence fell.

Sherlock's mind travelled back to Charles Adamson, and he relived the strange moments he'd witnessed: Moriarty taking the man's hand in his own; trailing his fingertips down his cheek; the soft look in his eyes and the comforting words he'd uttered.

Jim flitted through so many personalities. Watching him filled Sherlock with a strange fascination.

_Everything's just a game to him._ For the millionth time, he remembered their kiss – Jim's hand on his jawline, their lips crushed together, their tongues against each other. _He did that to shock John – but it wasn't just that, was it?_ Sherlock's pulse rose a little. _It was an experiment. To show me what he could give me and see how I would react. And my reaction surprised us both a little_.

But again his mind settled on the question: _what does he really want?_

Jim was a murderer, a psychopath, destructive and bored. His sole purpose was to mess with people's minds. He cared about no-one, not even himself. He felt nothing: everything was just a game.

The different personas were just another way for him to have fun.

…_Or were they?_

What if the personalities were more than just that?

A horrible thought occurred to him. _What if I'm wrong? What if the _psychopath_ is the fake one?_

And, like an unstoppable force, a whole catalogue of scenarios unfolded in his mind. Jim's excessive expressiveness from the very first moment they'd met. The way he'd seemed to genuinely care about Molly when playing Jim from IT, and about Kitty when playing Richard Brook. The way he'd flinched at being called a psychopath. The way he'd overreacted when he'd been called James. The careful lack of emotion when discussing Sebastian; the tenderness with which he'd comforted Charles. And above all, the tears in the night.

Not even Moriarty could fake that range of emotions so well.

_We're just alike, you and I._

A sudden wave of determination crashed through Sherlock.

_You've days ahead of you which you'll need to spend with him._ Capturing Moran would be even harder than expected, and other obstacles would soon lie in the way – other cases, New Year's Eve, John and Mary – not to mention his brother calling on him to resolve the panic Moriarty had caused. _You're allowing him to manipulate you, and you're doing nothing but panicking._ _He wants your attention, so you know what? _He allowed a grin to stretch across his face. _Give it to him. It's time to make your own moves: two can play his game._

"What is it?"

Jim looked up with a curious smile, clearly wondering what Sherlock could be grinning about. The detective met his gaze with a touch of defiance.

_If he shocks you, shock him back. Make _him_ feel vulnerable; make _him_ feel confused._

_Starting from now._

"Nothing," he said aloud, a gleam in his eye. "Absolutely nothing at all."

Raising a perfect eyebrow, Moriarty leaned back, crossing his legs. His fingers tapped a rhythm on the armrest, presumably something by Bach.

"What _do_ you want, then, Jim?" Sherlock asked blatantly.

Jim blinked, and then – as the detective had predicted – his infuriating, mysterious demeanour was back. "I want you to admit it to yourself."

"Admit _what?_" Sherlock played along, forcing a hint of annoyance into his tone to make it convincing.

Moriarty laughed quietly. "Now _that_, Sherlock, would be telling."

_Here goes._

"And what if I gave it to you?"

There it was, what he'd been aiming for – a brief flash of bewilderment in Jim's eyes. It was only there for a split second, but it was enough.

_That's it. Surprise him._ He suppressed another smile. _I'm enjoying this._

"What do you mean?" Jim's sceptical, winning smirk didn't fade. He probably considered Sherlock's response a minor miscalculation, certainly not a game-changer.

"Why do you do it?" the detective fired at him quickly, pointedly ignoring his question.

Moriarty frowned. He knew for sure now that something was up. "Do what?"

Sherlock leaned forwards. "_Pretend_."

"I don't _pretend_," Jim scoffed, dismissively. His fingers had stopped tapping the rhythm. _He's tense. He doesn't want to show it but I can tell._

"Yes you do," Sherlock countered swiftly. "You pretend you're a psychopath who doesn't care about anything, not even himself. You pretend you're invincible. You do everything you can to play with people's minds, claiming it's because you're bored." A tense, deliberate pause. "…But we both know that's not quite true."

Stunned, Jim stared at him – but only for a moment.

"What makes you think it's all pretending?" he demanded, his tone slightly icy, but he forced out another laugh. "All those ordinary people are so _funny_, but eventually, I run out of things to do with them. What's wrong with a little destruction?" He, too, leaned forwards now. "It's either them or me."

"_Them or you_?" Sherlock pointed out immediately, seizing the opportunity. "What? So in the end, killing them is just a distraction to keep _you_ from killing yourself?"

Moriarty tried to interrupt, but Sherlock cut him off. "A true psychopath wouldn't care about any of that. He wouldn't seek something other than self-destruction if, like you, it was what he really wanted." He smirked at his opponent, before mimicking his sing-song style: "_Caught yooou._"

Jim's jaw was clenched tight. "There's nothing stopping me from killing you–"

"Oh, but there is. There _is_," Sherlock contradicted, his heart racing – he was on a roll. Moriarty was well and truly under his control now. "You're not a psychopath, you just _want_ to be one. That would stop you from caring. That'd stop all the _nightmares_." Jim's eyes widened with horror that Sherlock knew about them, but the detective pressed on. "_I'm_ not the one who needs _you._ I'm _your_ hope. You came to me when you needed help the most, when you were hurting the most, because you were hoping _I_ could save _you_."

Moriarty was speechless.

Sherlock felt fantastic.

"It's time to stop stalling, _James._" Sure enough, Jim flinched at the name. "Stop with the taunting, and start playing the game."

Moriarty sat there, wide-eyed, taking everything in – and then, to Sherlock's surprise, a slow, mocking smile spread across his features.

"So is _this_ how it's going to be?" He sounded almost... _amused_. "We both just… give in?"

"What do you mean, _give in?_" Sherlock's sense of victory was beginning to crumble. _Have I missed something?_

Jim shrugged. "Like you said – you've caught me. Now what do you intend to do?"

The detective felt a twinge of doubt. _What _do_ I intend to do?_

"If I hadn't… 'caught' you," Sherlock asked, his voice losing some of its strength, "What would you have done?"

The criminal sighed. "Oh, Sherlock, we both know what _I_ want from you." He stretched his neck, keeping his intelligent gaze locked onto his enemy's. "The question is, do _you_ want the same from _me?_"

_He's bluffing,_ Sherlock knew. _He doesn't expect me to do anything – if he did, he wouldn't say these things._

His heart began to beat a little faster.

_But if he can mess with my emotions, why can't I do the same with his?_

He stood up, having made his decision. _If it's just a game, then it's time for me to win._

As he'd half-expected him to, Jim also leapt to his feet. "Going anywhere?" he challenged, tauntingly.

With determination, Sherlock strode right over to him, only stopping when their faces were mere inches apart. His voice lowered into a snarl. "I don't _know_ what I want, Jim, and I doubt you do either."

Moriarty was clearly startled at the uncharacteristic invasion of space. He felt the armchair digging into his calves behind him as he craned his neck, meeting the detective's hostile gaze. "Then what are you going to do?" He paused, the dangerous next words on the tip of his tongue, before daring to say them aloud: "I'm not John."

And those words filled Sherlock with a burning red fury.

"This has _nothing to do _with John," he hissed, face leering over his enemy's. "Absolutely _nothing_ to do with him."

"It has _everything_ to do with him," Moriarty whispered back. A cold, calculated amusement lay in his eyes. "You're spiralling into depression because he never really loved you back. He left you, and you're–"

"I don't _care_ about John anymore!" Sherlock was shouting now, his hands slamming roughly onto the criminal's shoulders and nearly pushing him over. Jim clenched at his sleeves to keep himself from falling. "_Shut up _about John! This is about you and me–"

"And _his_ memory standing in the way!" Jim yelled back. His own rage was beginning to appear. "And you _refuse_ to see beyond that–"

"Oh, for GOD'S SAKE!" Sherlock roared, reaching forward, grabbing his nemesis and smashing their lips together.

Jim froze for a moment in shock, eyes wide, but the detective sank his teeth into his lower lip, forcing the criminal's mouth open. Sherlock pressed himself savagely against him, making the smaller man stumble and fall back into the armchair; but still he refused to break away, shoving Jim hard against the backrest while working his tongue into his mouth. It was messy, brutal and overpowering; Sherlock knew Moriarty's jaw must be aching beneath his iron grip, yet he continued nonetheless. Jim had recovered enough to start kissing him back, and both closed their eyes tight, crushing their tongues against each other with brutal, fury-driven force, driven by days – no, months, _years_ of pent-up frustrations.

_I'm running out of air._ Sherlock forced himself to pause for a moment's breath before carrying on with his relentless attack. He was filled with a flaming, all-consuming determination to _defeat_ Moriarty, to _destroy _him once and for all in the way he'd least expect it; and as he shoved his tongue further into his enemy's mouth, he saw the perfect opportunity and took it. He tore his hands away from Jim's jawline and instead began to tug at his belt.

Jim let out a pained gasp at his clumsy, fumbling efforts. After ripping the belt's clasp undone, Sherlock used one hand to slam against Jim's collarbone, pushing him back against the chair and keeping him there with the sheer force of the kiss. With the other he yanked open Moriarty's zip, displaying the man's underwear.

Moriarty had recovered enough to realise what was going on – and react. With a small noise of discontent, his hands pressed against Sherlock's chest to shove him away, but the detective was too strong – he was now beginning to drag his trousers down, exposing him further. Jim suddenly began to struggle, his feeble movements causing enough discomfort for Sherlock to pause and clamber fully on top of him, placing himself in a stronger position against the resistance. Jim was trying to pull away from the kiss but his opponent wouldn't let him – Sherlock was crushing him, he was powerless, he was helpless. A muffled cry for help rose in his throat but failed to make it past his assaulted mouth. Soon it would be too late – too late –

It was all too much. The panic struck, and memories started coming in flashes now – of him smashed against the floor, of a stronger man on top of him, forcing him down, keeping him down, ignoring his pleas and ripping his defences away–

_No–_

Sherlock was clawing at his shirt, ripping it upwards to expose his lean, muscular abdomen – while Jim drowned helplessly in the flashbacks that swept over him like a tidal wave–

_NO–_

The hand pressing down on his collarbone shifted to his throat, starting to choke him – just like all the other times which Jim tried to shove away but couldn't – Sherlock began to use his other hand to fumble at his own jeans, tearing the clasp apart–

_NO!_

With sudden, insane force, Jim smashed his hands onto Sherlock's shoulders, sending the taller man toppling off-balance. But he knew, with despair, that it wouldn't fend him off for long.

"Sherlock, _please!_" he screamed while he still had the chance. To his shock, he realised tears were streaming down his cheeks. "Stop it! Please _STOP IT!_"

Sherlock froze–

–and then, with sudden horror, backed away.

Jim let out a sob at the release, weakly scrabbling into an upright position and fumbling to refasten his trousers. His hands were shaking; he gulped mouthfuls of air, struggling to calm himself down, but the tears wouldn't stop, they wouldn't stop…

"Oh my god," Sherlock gasped, reality crashing back. "Oh my god. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry–"

Moriarty blocked out the detective's voice, burying his head in his arms to give into the memories and _weep_. It was all too much. It was all too much. He tucked his knees up, shaking his head from side to side, trying desperately to clear his mind while he trembled, whimpering.

Sherlock was frozen. He couldn't believe what he'd just done.

_Oh my god._

_Jim, forgive me… _

"I lost my mind. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he repeated, dully. The rage had seeped away, replaced by disbelief and… _grief_. The sight of Jim's helpless breakdown – which _he'd _so horribly caused – was breaking his heart. "Please, I would never – oh my god, I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Jim blocked him out, drawing deep, shuddering breaths amid his crying, searching hopelessly within himself for _control_. _Control._ He looked so frail, so _broken_, that Sherlock felt he would die of guilt.

_What have I done?!_

He had never felt so tortured, so lost. Tentatively, he crept closer, laying a hand softly on the man's arm. Jim made no reaction, just carried on crying – which only seemed to make it all worse.

"Jim," he whispered. His vision, too, began to blur. "Jim, oh my god, please – I'm sorry. Forgive me."

Jim twisted his head to the side, away from Sherlock, tears still dripping from his tightly closed eyes and streaming down his cheeks. He sat huddled in the corner of the armchair, sucking in sharp lungfuls of air.

"I didn't mean it. You _have_ to believe me," Sherlock desperately continued to try, his own voice trembling. "Please, talk to me. Say something."

No response but the awful sound of Jim's choked, ragged breaths. He wasn't ready. He wasn't ready yet.

Sherlock wavered for a moment and then – upon sudden impulse, not caring how aggressively Moriarty might react – wrapped his arms around him, letting the tears fall as he squeezed him tight. Jim stiffened, but otherwise remained unresponsive.

_What have I done? How _could_ I? What have I done?!_

A thousand thoughts raced through Sherlock's mind as he held Jim in his arms – the man he'd just impulsively, _selfishly_ been about to _destroy_ – but only one tumbled past his lips, over and over, a begging mantra–

"_Forgive me._"

The _rage_ he'd felt, the _power_ – it made him feel sick. _And look what I would've done. Look what I've almost done now. _He couldn't believe what he'd been thinking.

"Say something…"

He'd _wanted_ Moriarty – of course he'd wanted him – but not like this. Never like this. _What the hell is wrong with me?_

What would Jim do now? What could they do?

_How could I have done that?_

He hated himself then. He _loathed_ what he'd almost done. He had lost all but the slightest glimmer of control and had only one hope left now, which he repeated, again and again. He didn't care if Jim wasn't listening, or didn't hear him. He didn't deserve what he needed but begged for it nonetheless.

"_Forgive me…_"


	10. For when it really matters

It took Sherlock forever to realise that Jim had fallen asleep.

He pulled away gently, cheeks still wet with his crocodile tears. The criminal's breathing was deep and regular, eyes closed shut. He looked young, untroubled, innocent; the creases of fear and worry on his face had smoothed out. He lay limply in the armchair, the armrest pressed against his back. The position must have been uncomfortable, but Sherlock guessed Jim had been too worn out by the crying to mind.

He felt another pang of shame.

_I can't believe what I've done…_

He stood up, briefly stretching out the muscles which had been curled around Moriarty's hunched figure. At a loss, he flitted through his options. One thing was clear: _I can't just leave him here._

A deep, shuddering breath.

_He needs rest. I made him suffer; he needs rest…_

Heart hammering, he leaned over and – after more than just a moment's hesitation – softly snaked an arm behind Jim's back, placing the other beneath his knees. After checking Moriarty's breathing patterns remained unchanged, he slowly lifted him out of the chair.

Jim's sleeping face lolled to the side. He stirred a little, fingers twitching, but – mercifully – didn't wake.

Sherlock took several quick, shallow breaths, struggling feebly with the man's dead weight. Jim wasn't too heavy; it was surely enough for him to handle. _This is the least I can do for him._

With uncertain, laborious steps, he began to carry Jim towards the bedroom, trying as hard as he could to make the transition gentle and without any sudden jolts. Every few seconds, he glanced down at his load, hardly believing what he was doing.

_What am I doing? I've made a mistake. This will only make everything worse…_

Streaks remained on Jim's gorgeous face from the tears he'd spilled. Looking at them hurt – which is why Sherlock forced himself to do just that, constantly reminding himself of the devastating crime he'd been about to commit.

He shifted uncomfortably to nudge the door open with his shoulder.

A square of light fell from the doorway upon his disorganised bed, sheets strewn everywhere. Dragging his feet through the gloom, he strengthened his hold on Moriarty's body before delicately lowering his opponent onto the soft mattress. After a pause, he tentatively extricated his arms from beneath him. Jim's eyes remained closed, his breathing steady.

Sherlock allowed himself a deep breath. _There. I made it._

A sudden weariness and exhaustion rushed through him. He collapsed onto the edge of the bed, his eyes filled with Jim's form stretched out before him, somehow blissfully containing the turmoil within the criminal's mind.

His eyelids were heavy from his own crying; he rubbed at them, blinking hard. _Don't fall asleep_, he chastised himself._ You don't deserve it._

One of Jim's legs stretched out as he subconsciously sunk deeper among the sheets, his bare foot brushing against Sherlock's thigh. The detective felt a jolt where it had touched him – but that was quickly smothered by the pure, throbbing guilt rising within him again.

_I'm a monster. I'm no better than the rest of them._

That sickening _rush_ he'd felt, that _rage_…

For the thousandth time, he mouthed his plea, face contorted in desperation –

_Forgive me, Jim._

A sudden thought occurred to him. It was stupid, pathetic, and entirely futile – but now, he was beyond caring about all that.

He brought his shaking hands together and, for the first – and, probably, the last – time in his life, he looked up towards the heavens.

_Religion is irrational._ God was nothing more than a fantastical myth created by ignorant human beings as an excuse to divert blame from themselves and give them a false sense of control over their futures.

And yet – just this once – he allowed himself the benefit of the doubt.

_God, I… I know I've never believed in you. And I still don't. _He struggled to direct his thoughts towards the whimsical deity; this seemed pathetic, even to him, but… _But if – by some bizarre, insane, impossible chance – you really are up there…_

He swallowed hard, closing his eyes tight.

_Do one thing for me,_ he silently begged – not caring who he was talking to anymore. _Just one thing._

Reopening them, he glanced once more at Jim's sleeping figure in the dim light.

A shudder ran through him. The mere thought of his former blind rage filled him with horror. Moriarty's screams echoed through his mind – _Stop it! Please STOP IT!_

He squeezed his clasped, intertwining hands until his knuckles were white. His eyes snapped back closed.

Feverishly, he ended his frantic plea.

_Please, whatever it takes, just let him forgive me. Don't let it end like this._

_Let him forgive me…_

"Sherlock."

The voice was soft and mild. Sherlock stirred a little, and then – with a jolt – his eyes shocked open.

It took him a moment to realise he was lying on the edge of the bed. He cursed himself. _I must have fallen asleep…_

His eyes flickered over to the voice's source – and he immediately jerked upright.

_Jim's awake._

Moriarty sat cross-legged on the mattress before him, watching him; his face was unreadable. Sherlock's heart began to stutter.

_This is it,_ he thought apprehensively, panic threatening to overcome him. _This is where he either forgives, or forgets me._

His throat was a desert; he swallowed, but his voice remained hoarse. "Jim."

Their eyes met. Silence fell.

Sherlock felt the constant fear and guilt would tear his mind apart. "Jim, I'm sorry," he breathed, for the millionth time. "I'm so, so sorry. Say something."

The criminal took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. The waiting was killing Sherlock.

"Please, Jim." He sat up straighter, shifting his weight so he was kneeling facing Moriarty. "I can't believe what I almost did. I'll never… I…" He hung his head in shame. "I'll never, ever hurt you like that again. Ever."

"I know," Jim stated simply.

Sherlock raised his head sharply, pulse spiking. A tiny spark of hope lit up within him.

Jim reached out and placed a hand on his enemy's shoulder. Sherlock seemed to melt beneath his touch, visibly relaxing, an expression of both pain and anticipation flitting across his face.

Using the hand to pull him slightly closer, Jim leaned over and placed a kiss on Sherlock's lips.

It was fleeting, their lips only touching for the slightest second, but it was enough.

Immeasurable relief and joy crashed through Sherlock.

_He's forgiven me._

Jim pressed their foreheads together, closing his eyes. Sherlock could feel his breath mingling with his own. It thrilled him. _He's forgiven me – thank god! He's forgiven me…_

"_I'm_ sorry, Sherlock," Moriarty murmured, his hand sliding upwards from the detective's shoulder to tenderly grasp his neck, just beneath his jawline. "I overreacted…"

"No," Sherlock whispered fiercely back. "Don't apologise. It's my fault. It was all my fault."

"You couldn't have known." Jim broke away a little, opening his eyes to meet Sherlock's again. They were full of tender compassion.

"Known what?" Sherlock asked timidly. His heart still raced with the relief and disbelief. _He's giving me another chance I don't even deserve._

Jim turned his head a little to the side, his expression growing grim. Sherlock felt a stab of fear. _Oh no. Have I done things wrong again?_

"The thing is, Sherlock…" Jim sighed heavily, stalling. A slightly haunted look had crept into his dark eyes. He paused for the longest time, trying to put things into words; Sherlock leaned forwards attentively.

"You deserve to know," Moriarty decided at last, more to himself than to his opponent. Before he began, however, he flashed Sherlock a fearful glance. "But promise this won't change anything."

"Promise," Sherlock told him firmly, and waited.

Jim sighed again, running a hand through his messy bedhead. "I've been raped," he confessed bluntly.

Sherlock's eyes widened, his mouth forming an _O_ of surprise.

His vocal chords automatically kicked in, warbling. "I'm – I'm so sorry–"

"Don't be," Jim cut him off. His voice was slack and deadened. "Let's say I… I didn't come from a… _conventional_ family. We were never poor, but my father was…" He faltered a little, but forced himself to keep on going. "He was… an alcoholic. I was his youngest son."

"Your _father_," Sherlock gasped. Although he'd long suspected abuse in Jim's childhood, he couldn't begin to imagine how… _horrifying_ that must have been.

Jim shrugged it away. "It was… once a month, perhaps twice. He wasn't home much."

_Once a month?!_ "A-and for how long did this go on?"

Moriarty averted his gaze. Quietly, he revealed, "About nine years…"

"_Nine years?!_" Sherlock's voice rose in shock, but he quickly dimmed it down, aware of the criminal's distress. He couldn't fathom it. _Raped for nine years. Jesus fucking Christ…_

"I was _young_!" Jim added with a hint of desperation. "I was only seven, I didn't really… know what was going on."

Sherlock shook his head in sheer horror, his mind still struggling to process the information. A sick rage formed within him, towards the monster who could have done this to their own child. "Oh my god, Jim, I… I really am sorry."

"You couldn't have known!" Jim reassured him. "And I'm… I'm over it. Really." A small, half-hearted smile. "I've fucked Seb enough times for that."

Sherlock offered a mandatory, empty smile in return, but his guilt had simply intensified. "But I… what I did, did I…" He trailed off with a grimace.

"…Bring it all back?" Jim glanced down and away, shyly. "A… a little bit, yes."

_Oh god no. _"I'm so sorry–"

"I know you are, Sherlock." Jim met his gaze, which now brimmed with tears. "And that's why I forgive you."

Sherlock let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "…Really?"

"Of course." The hand on his neck squeezed lightly. "He never was. Sorry, I mean. You're nothing like him, and I know you didn't mean it. It was me – I go panicky when I get the flashbacks, I overreacted. So I forgive you." Before Sherlock could stammer out thanks, Moriarty's voice dipped a little lower. "And besides… I'd only resisted in the first place because… well." He shook his head slightly, with a sad little smile. "Because I didn't want you to regret anything."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock placed a hand onto the criminal's, rubbing his fingers over their slightly rougher surface.

"You're a virgin, Sherlock." Jim pointed out gently. "And that's important. That's something you shouldn't ever have ripped away from you. Not until it _really_ matters."

Sherlock swallowed. "Why didn't you think it mattered?"

"You were so _angry_." Moriarty sighed deeply. "Even the kissing – it was all just to get back at me, wasn't it?"

_It was more than that. _But the detective couldn't deny that Jim was still partly right. He remained silent.

"Your objective was to shock me and be powerful for once." Jim pursed his lips. "That's never a good reason to throw that innocence away, and you would've regretted it when it was too late."

Sherlock watched him in the semi-darkness, his eyes following the curves of his toned figure; the man's touch on his neck felt electric. He lowered his own voice. "And what would be a… _good_ reason?"

"Attraction. Lust. Mutual desire," Moriarty responded immediately.

Sherlock's gaze flickered to the man's plump, parted lips. He felt an odd rush in his ears, a thrill in the beating of his heart; a bizarre recklessness pumped through his veins. _Attraction… desire…_

He lifted his hands and, with incredible delicacy, positioned them on the criminal's jaw. Their eyes met. Sherlock steadied his breaths – he was nervous. Really nervous.

"Like this, then?" he whispered.

He brought his face closer and closer to Jim's until, finally, their lips actually met, light as feathers against each other before Sherlock gently began to increase pressure on them. He let Moriarty's mouth open on its own terms, letting his tongue dance lightly on the man's lower lip before carefully trailing in. With the utmost care, he slowly massaged his tongue against Jim's, letting the kiss stretch out long and tender. His eyes drifted closed; now, there was none of the heat, anger or desperation he had been surging with before – just the sweet, loving feeling of their mouths against one another. And as the sweet moments passed, Sherlock found a different kind of warmth filled him; a soft, satisfying warmth curling around his mind and heart, leading to a plethora of different sensations altogether.

And as he absorbed everything in, he thought to himself – _I really _do_ want this._

Eventually, they broke apart, eyes reopening to gaze into each other in an almost breathless wonder.

"Like that," Jim replied at last.

Sherlock kissed him again the same way, this time easing him down onto the mattress so that the detective was sitting on top of his stomach. Sherlock never shifted too much of his weight onto Jim, careful not to be forceful or in any way commanding – but in the end it didn't really matter. Moriarty stretched his arms around his back and enveloped him into a hug, pressing Sherlock's head to his chest; they huddled together, bodies pressed tightly against each other. Sherlock heard his opponent's heart beating fast and loud.

"Jim…" he murmured.

Jim placed a hand onto his curls, ruffling them slightly. His voice was husky. "…Sherlock?"

The detective closed his eyes. "Attraction," he repeated, dully.

Moriarty laughed softly, his hand caressing Sherlock's shoulder. "Yes," was all he said.

Another silence fell, filled with the rise and fall of Jim's chest beneath Sherlock.

"Jim… I _want_ this," Sherlock finally confessed.

The caressing stopped. Sherlock struggled to lift himself up onto his shoulders so that their eyes could meet.

"I _do_," he insisted before the criminal could argue. "And it's not… _anger_. And it's not power."

"That doesn't mean you should, Sherlock." Jim's eyes were filled with uncertainty. "You have to wait for the right reason. For when it really matters."

Sherlock leaned over and kissed him again, briefly. He was undeniably aroused – they both were. But that had never mattered before. Now, for the first time, he felt certain of what he wanted – and wasn't afraid.

"And now, I think…" Sherlock ran his fingers lightly over Jim's cheek. "It really does matter."


	11. Your turn

Planting a light kiss on Jim's unresisting neck, Sherlock rolled off the criminal to lie by his side, keeping his arm wrapped around his enemy's form. Their gazes met with burning intensity.

"Are you sure?" Moriarty whispered.

Sherlock's heart was beating almost impossibly fast.

"I'm sure," he replied firmly, his hand on Jim's shoulder sliding upwards to intertwine with the man's ruffled dark hair.

_I'd never dreamt of doing this with anyone but John_. A helpless smile spread across his face as he lost himself in the pits of Jim's eyes. _And now it's Moriarty, of all people._

But there was no denying the craving he was feeling for the consulting criminal. By now he was uncomfortably hard, and a quick glance at Jim's crotch showed his opponent was faring no better.

Jim placed his hand on the nape of Sherlock's neck, using his thumb to brush against the detective's upper jaw. "You really are so gorgeous," the soft Irish tones crooned. "I can hardly believe you've never done this before."

"Teach me," Sherlock breathed. Jim's voice had sent shivers down his spine – and had only made his urges stronger than ever.

But to his dismay, a light frown tainted Moriarty's flawless features. "Think things through, Sherlock." Concern welled up again in his gaze. "Don't do anything you'll regret."

"I won't!" With a hint of impatience, Sherlock leaned over to kiss him again, relishing the feeling of his tongue against Jim's. He lifted a leg and hooked it over the criminal's waist, pressing their groins together: the faint contact was still enough to make him gasp, and feel more desperate than ever.

Moriarty's eyes had widened at the touch, his pupils dilating. "You can still change your mind," he insisted, but his voice was slightly strained – his self-control was beginning to slip.

_Perfect_. Then another thought occurred to Sherlock. _Soon he won't be able to keep up the acting – soon I'll see him for what he really is._

For now, though, he needed to satisfy his own desires. "Clothes," he stated breathlessly.

Holding his gaze for a moment longer, Jim gave in at last and his hands reached for the buttons down Sherlock's front. Before Sherlock knew it all of them were undone and his bare chest was visible; he quickly slid out of his dress shirt, watching Jim's eyes glide appreciatively over his topless form. With another kiss he readjusted his leg around his enemy, the friction between their bodies becoming unbearable. _God, that feels good. And we haven't even started yet._

Sex had never been of significance to Sherlock. He'd watched porn three times as research, of the three main sexualities, but it had all seemed pretty pointless. He knew he was attracted to men and not women – he'd known _that_ since the age of twelve – but had always been able to shove it aside. And yet now, there was a… _hunger_ in him, a throbbing _desire_ that demanded to be felt.

Moriarty was beautiful. That much was obvious. His features were perfect, his body sublime; his supple movements were filled with predatory charm that only equalled the acuteness of his mind. In short, he was the most stunning man Sherlock had ever met.

His fingers now reached beneath his enemy's shirt to spread ceaselessly across his abdomen, reaching upwards to brush against his fine collarbones. Then, with a yank, he pulled the shirt off Jim's lean torso.

For a moment, Sherlock leaned over him, pressing their bare chests together while passionately attacking his mouth – but too soon, the feeling of hot skin against skin, wet lips against lips, wasn't enough.

Jim acted first, his hands slipping towards Sherlock's belt and expertly unclasping it. Next was his zip, which yielded easily, allowing him to swiftly remove his trousers – although it was with some reluctance that Sherlock detached his leg from around Jim's waist. Tossing the abandoned clothes off the side of the bed, he sat up for a moment longer – naked if not for his flimsy underpants – to gaze down at Moriarty strewn on his mattress.

His voice was akin to a growl. "Your turn."

He reached for Jim's belt but the criminal caught his hands, their eyes meeting briefly.

"Let me do it," Jim murmured.

With exaggerated annoyance, Sherlock forced himself to lean back and wait. Not that he had to wait long – his opponent was efficient, hastily taking off his own belt and jeans to match Sherlock's state of undress. Before throwing his clothes onto the floor, however, he stuffed his hand into his trouser pocket, searchingly.

Sherlock smothered a knowing smirk as he saw what Jim dug out. _Well, of course he's come prepared,_ he told himself. _He probably just didn't expect it to happen this way._

Dropping his bundle of clothes over the edge, Jim turned to him with a wolfish smile. The pair regarded each other calculatingly.

The detective's pulse was erratic, his breathing forcibly shallow. His eyes flickered over Jim's bare, muscular form.

He wouldn't be able to resist for much longer.

"Jim…"

Moriarty threw himself onto Sherlock, wrapping his arms around him and coaxing him onto his back with a fierce kiss. Their bodies were close, so close, and a strange buzzing was filling Sherlock's ears – a hormonal overbalance perhaps – but he wanted _more_, so much more, yet even now there were clothes in the way –

He stretched his hands out and pushed down on his underwear, feeling it drag a little lower but still not enough – he felt a wetness at his fingertips which it took him a moment to realise was pre-cum. Jim, sensing what he was doing and dying to do the same, tugged one arm free and shoved at his own pants as well, his being on top allowing them to be removed more easily. Sherlock felt Moriarty's hard member brush against his inner thigh – the wet touch was electric, spurring his movements, forcing him to tear more desperately at the clothing until at last they were both naked and clutching hungrily at each other.

Jim's teeth bit down on his neck and began to suck. Sherlock gasped – this was pure cruelty, the constant dissatisfaction pure agony. He was harder than he'd ever been in his life and god, it _hurt_. He reached blindly for Jim's cock, tried to grab it but was too clumsy; Moriarty shuddered at the attempt, leaking slightly onto the detective's hand.

"_Wait_," he gasped, trailing his tongue along Sherlock's jawline before sliding it back into his mouth.

As much as he enjoyed the kissing, the tension within Sherlock was unbearable – he forced himself to break away and voice his pleas. "I _can't_," he groaned, pitifully. "_Do_ it, Jim."

And Jim obliged. Pulling himself upwards, he placed a hand on Sherlock's collarbone to flatten the detective beneath him.

He forced his tone to become authoritative despite his heavy breathing. "Since this is your first time… I'll top."

"I don't care, just _do it!_" Sherlock wailed. The sight of Jim on top of him, breathless and wild, was driving him insane. _Oh, god, this is better than any high._

Shakily, Jim unscrewed the tube he'd kept in his palm and squirted lubricant all over his hand, before applying it rapidly to his stiff, glistening cock. "Hold still, Sherlock." His voice lowered seductively, torture to Sherlock's ears, as he regained some control over himself. "Spread your legs."

Sherlock did so, wrapping them around Moriarty's middle and pulling in a weak attempt to bring the two of them closer together. Jim, of course, resisted, staring instead at his opponent's entrance.

"This might hurt," he sighed, his lips inching lovingly closer towards his enemy's, "but not for long, I promise."

And before Sherlock could think of a witty retort, he _felt _it. First one finger, then two, probing at his entrance and stretching it open, slick and invasive. Christ, it _hurt_ – but, understanding the theory behind it, he forced himself to relax. Suddenly, Jim's fingers hit his prostrate, and he gave an involuntary jerk at the shocking euphoria that brought. A slow moan slipped from his lips, then was snatched away as Jim did it to him again.

"Th-that's it." Moriarty's voice was trembling. He was struggling to contain himself – but not for much longer.

Sherlock opened his eyes as Jim abruptly removed his fingers, almost wincing at the change. He felt deprived, a hollow emptiness where they had been – yet that was soon replaced by something else entirely.

"Oh my _god_," Sherlock hissed as Jim's cock slowly pushed through him. The criminal's eyes drifted closed as he shoved himself all the way in, only to reopen and gaze deep into Sherlock's shocked, wide ones as he pulled back again, this time more sharply.

Sherlock groaned his name as Jim slammed forwards again, feeling the man's fingers digging hard into his shoulders. He let out an incoherent whimper as Jim narrowly missed his prostrate – _on purpose, of course, the bastard_ – and wrapped his arms around Jim's neck to steady himself, while widening and tightening the grip of his legs on Moriarty's waist. His mind was filled with nothing but the burning elation of their bodies against each other, _in _each other, and he threw his head back in the bliss, letting his curls splay out over the pillow.

Jim began to increase his pace, more accurate now – no, _deadly_ in his accuracy – and Sherlock began to jerk and judder at every advance. The bedsprings creaked in protest as he was slammed into the mattress with ever increasing force, again and again and again – Jim's breaths sharp and heavy, becoming mixed with tiny grunts and groans of pleasure – Sherlock losing himself in the heavenly roughness of it all, forcing his hips upwards to meet each push with a moan.

And just as he thought things couldn't get better, Jim's hand closed around his cock and began sliding up and down in rhythm with the thrusts below.

Sherlock let loose a strangled cry at the sheer paradise, the palm moving up and down his shaft bringing with it every sensation of ecstasy he'd never known. A particularly powerful spike of pleasure cut off all his thoughts, filling him instead with a scorching, fiery bliss, their thighs slapping against each other, Jim's hand pumping ceaselessly as he sawed in and out. There was a sensation growing within Sherlock, something of terrifying intensity, needing, _aching_ to break free – each thrust brought it ever closer, and soon his cries became louder, more frequent, more urgent – Jim's groans and moans began to echo his own and he sped up, faster and faster, hammering brutally into Sherlock while his fingertips lashed at the tip of his shaft. Sweat trickled down the back of Sherlock's neck as he arched himself against his enemy, craving every lunge, and then suddenly Moriarty's lips were against his and their tongues were pressing against each other and he could do nothing but abandon all control.

A scream burst through him at the overwhelming force of his climax, his entire body juddering and stiffening as white streaked from his cock and splattered all over their stomachs. He spasmed at the burning waves of exhilarating glory, rocking on the mattress, and stiffened, his grip on Moriarty suddenly tightening – and, howling his name at the top of his lungs, the criminal arched his back and joined him at their rapturous summit, surging and spilling endlessly into Sherlock until they were both so blinded they forgot their own names.

They lay there, panting, for what felt like an age.

Haltingly, with ridiculous care, Jim extracted himself from Sherlock, pulling their sweating, shuddering bodies apart. Sherlock's cock still twitched in remembrance of the heaven it had just breached. His eyes were heavy, his breathing slowly steadying as the rush of endorphins ebbed away.

Jim collapsed onto the bed beside him, and together they stared blankly up at the white ceiling, lost for words.

Jim's wet hand reached for Sherlock's and their fingers locked together, the criminal turning his head to the side to gaze wonderingly at his stunned nemesis.

"Sherlock," he breathed, his voice catching.

Sherlock sluggishly twisted his own head to meet Jim's eyes. He couldn't bring himself to speak – what he'd felt was indescribable.

"That," he finally whispered, "was amazing."

Moriarty grinned back. "Want to do it again?"

The mere thought of reliving all that sent shivers of anticipation down his spine. But the sex had also exhausted him – he didn't want to move; all he wanted now was to lie beside Jim, close his eyes, and lose himself in the heat and constancy of his lover's embrace.

Jim didn't give him a chance to answer, instead reaching over and pressing their lips into another kiss. Sherlock relaxed into it, the now familiar sensation sweet and comforting.

"You don't have to answer that yet," Jim told him softly as they broke apart, his mouth stretching into an unreadable half-smile. "But tell me, do you regret it?"

Sherlock blinked hard. He was too overcome by his experience to think straight. _How do I feel about Jim?_ he asked himself, struck once again by the complexity of his feelings. _Do I… do I actually _love_ him?_

Of course, what they'd just done indicated that they did, but in the end – was this all just another part of Jim's game? Or rather, of _their _game?

His eyes bored deep into Moriarty's questioning gaze.

Just remembering what they'd done was making his heart stutter.

He swallowed. _Well, right now, at least he's given me an easy question to answer._

"No," he murmured, his voice hoarse and cracked but his creeping grin intact. "I don't regret it at all."


	12. Courtship

It was strange; getting up, cleaning up, putting clothes back on; moving on with life as though nothing had happened. As though Sherlock hadn't just let Jim fuck him on his bed, then fallen asleep with their naked forms wrapped around each other.

As Sherlock finally redid the top button of his dress shirt, he stopped to turn to his beautiful enemy. Their gazes met, and a smile tugged at the edges of his lips.

_I still can't quite believe it,_ he mused. _How did we come to this?_

"We should go out for dinner," the criminal suggested.

Sherlock frowned, the smile vanishing. "We'll be recognised," he hurriedly pointed out. He felt a strange aversion to going out in public – as though people would recognise his newfound loss of virginity on sight. It was stupid, and he tried to push it away, but somehow couldn't.

"So what?" Jim purred, running a hand through his hair. "I doubt many people'll see us anyway. It's a dark evening, so as long as we move quickly and keep our heads down…"

"But it's far too risky!" Sherlock insisted, grasping for excuses.

Moriarty quietened him with a disarming grin. "Oh, Sherlock..." He sighed lovingly. "Can you blame me for wanting to _commemorate_ the occasion?"

So that was how, half an hour later, they found themselves at a table at Angelo's, raising glasses of Italian red wine to sip at. Jim's eyes crinkled up in a smile as his gaze met Sherlock's over the rim of his glass.

"I told you they wouldn't recognise us," he murmured at his nemesis, lowering it from his lips.

Sherlock smirked in return. The wine was good, leaving a fruity tang in his mouth. He wondered absent-mindedly if he would taste it in Jim's later.

Angelo had greeted him warmly the moment he'd entered, flashing a sly, calculating glance at Jim, before instantly procuring the wine as a welcoming gift. "'Ts more romantic," he'd whispered to Sherlock with a wink.

"You know," the criminal now began, "usually people go on dates first, have sex, and _then_ move in together."

"Is that what this is then?" Sherlock asked wryly. "A _date_?"

Jim raised an impressive eyebrow. "Is that what you want it to be?"

The detective considered. _Well, I don't see why not,_ he decided. _If we're actually going to pursue a relationship, I don't see any other way to do it._

"What do _you_ think?" he asked him in return, clasping his slender hands.

Moriarty chuckled. "A date it is, then." He hesitated, pursing his lips. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"How about we start over?"

Sherlock blinked. "…What do you mean?"

"Let's start from the beginning." Jim lowered his voice, giving him a seductive little smile. "Start over, follow the right steps. Make it a proper… _courtship_."

Sherlock leaned forward, considering it. "Would we really settle for something so… ordinary?"

"You tell me." Jim's dark eyes bored into his.

"Sherlock!" a hearty voice declared behind them.

Sherlock felt a firm hand thump his shoulder as he turned to look up at Angelo, grinning cheerfully at him.

"Hello again, Angelo," he said courteously, offering a harmless smile in return.

"You haven't been here for a while!" the restaurant owner declared, before his gaze switched to Moriarty. After a slight pause, a familiar, sly note entered his voice. "So who's this?"

"Angelo, this is Jim." Sherlock paused, waiting to see if the man would recognise his companion – but evidently he rang no bells. The detective carried on. "Jim, I met Angelo when–"

"This man got me off a _murder_ charge!" Angelo cut him off with a dramatic whisper to Jim. "If it weren't for him, I've had ended up in _prison!_"

"You did end up in prison," Sherlock pointed out.

"Only for housebreaking," Angelo dismissed. "So, as always, Sherlock – anything, on the house, for you _and_ for yer date!"

Jim's eyes crinkled up in amusement at the term.

"Thank you, Angelo." Sherlock turned to his 'date'. "So, have you decided?"

Moriarty's gaze flickered briefly over the menu. "May I have the _rigatoni al pomodoro e melanzane_, please?"

Angelo looked taken aback by the criminal's perfect Italian accent. "_Sicuramente!_" he responded with a wry grin.

Sherlock glanced at his menu. "Just some Milanese risotto for me, thanks."

"Right away!" Winking again, Angelo turned away, heading back to the kitchen with a spring in his step.

The pair watched him go before turning their attentions back to each other.

"Yes," Sherlock told Jim simply.

Moriarty didn't need to be told twice. He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You think it would work?"

"I think it's worth a try," the detective replied.

Jim nodded. "A regular courtship it is, then." With a charming smile, he raised his glass. "Here's to starting anew."

Sherlock raised his, the clear red liquid swirling within like blood as they clinked their glasses together.

Taking another sip, Jim sighed heavily. "So let's say this is our first date."

"Of course," Sherlock played along.

"Let's get to _know_ each other, then!" The criminal widened his eyes, the words rolling mockingly off his tongue.

"I'm a consulting detective at 221B Baker Street," Sherlock began, leaning back. "Only one in the world. I solve crimes because the police are too incompetent to do so."

"And I'm the world's only consulting _criminal_," Jim drawled. "I help vengeful people kill other people because _they're_ too incompetent to do so."

"Have you ever _directly_ killed anyone?" Sherlock interrupted their game, narrowing his eyes.

Jim met his gaze levelly. "Carl Powers was my first, but yes. There were others."

Intrigue stirred within Sherlock. "Care to elaborate?"

Moriarty's jaw stiffened. "My father, for instance."

Sherlock froze, mouth dropping open. Once again, words failed him.

"You can't say he didn't deserve it," Jim hissed. "I should've killed him earlier."

The detective swallowed hard, sucking in a deep breath. "I see," was all he could say.

"Do you really?" Moriarty's eyes flashed with such a sudden burning hatred that Sherlock instinctively flinched back.

_So this is what triggers the psychopathic side_, he thought to himself, heart racing. _It must be some sort of… coping mechanism…_

Jim took several deep breaths, hands curling into fists. His dark gaze was distant, reliving the memories – and abruptly, he launched into them.

"I was 18," he began, voice hoarse, avoiding Sherlock's gaze. "I'd finished school. They wouldn't let me get into university." He stretched his neck, relaxing taut muscles with a sigh. "So… I left home. Contacted the right people. Submerged myself in the criminal world." A twisted smile. "Soon I had them all dancing around like… _puppets_ on a _string_."

He ran a tongue over his snarling lips, glanced briefly down at his hands. "But one night I went back."

Sherlock waited with baited breath.

"This time I was sure," Moriarty breathed. "I was completely ready."

He glanced upwards, twining his fingers together until their knuckles were white.

"I stood on the doorstep. Rang the bell." A bitter smirk. "It took a while for him to open the door. It was just him and my mother in the house, after all, and _she_ was in no fit state to…" he trailed off.

"I held a bottle of wine in my hands. Gloves on, of course." His voice grew stronger. "His favourite, _Château Léoville Las Cases_, 170 a bottle – he always kept a store stashed in the cellar, but he never touched it. So I had the bottle with me."

A shudder seemed to run through him. "He opened the door and just – _looked _at me… And I offered him the bottle and – and he grabbed it. Then he put it down. And he hit me."

He squeezed his eyes shut, wincing as though he'd just been dealt the blow.

"He thumped me across the face and I was on the floor. He stood over me and started kicking me and yelling at me about how I'd disappeared, that I'd left him and my mother sick with worry–" a quick burst of laughter spilled from his mouth. "I took it and I lied and said I was sorry. Then he kicked me out."

Cruelty twitched at the corner of his lips.

"I'd bugged the house beforehand."

The words came in a rush now, enveloped in his deep, soft voice.

"I made it back and sat before the monitor and watched as he downed the lot – that _idiot_. Sat alone in the living room, took a glass, then another, then another." His tone held a note of triumph. "Tetrodotoxin. It took four hours."

His eyes shocked open, haunting euphoria blossoming within their depths.

"The first symptoms took twenty minutes to appear. The numbness at the fingers and tongue, he'd frowned a little and carried on. Then the sweating and salivation, the headache – he went to the kitchen to get _paracetamol_–" A mocking giggle. "When he started to tremble he couldn't even make it to bed, just sort of… fell onto the floor." He sucked in a lungful of air, grinning helplessly. "The seizures, the paralysis, and then he started to _asphyxiate_." He shook his head in wonder. "And I could see and hear it all! He was _choking_ to death and he was _panicking_ and clawing at the carpet and _crying_, and nobody could save him but _me_."

His rapture began to fade. He sighed, lowering his gaze.

"Four hours, then he was still. They didn't even find him until next morning."

A short silence fell, filled only with Jim's shallow breaths.

"I watched it time and time again. And only then was I truly happy." His gaze finally met Sherlock's, and the rabid intensity in them dimmed. "Can you blame me?"

And Angelo chose the precise moment to lower the plates of pasta onto the table.

"Enjoy!" he bellowed, obliviously beaming at the pair before leaning quickly over to Sherlock and audibly stage-whispering, "He's a hot one – you can come here for more dates any time!"

"Thank you," Sherlock's lips automatically responded, while his mind still spun with the tale he'd been told.

_He's insane_, it whispered with a stab of fear. _Did you _see_ the way he was talking about this – a _murder_ he'd committed?! He's an absolute psychopath!_

_No!_ his smitten side immediately responded. _It's only the memory of his father that drives him mad. You can't blame him!_

"Well, this is hardly date-worthy conversation, is it?" Jim's eyes had brightened, the easy smile returning to his lips. He seemed to have snapped completely out of his reverie. "Let's talk about something else. Let's talk about _us_."

_Completely demented,_ Sherlock's brain muttered.

_Shut up! He isn't,_ the other side of it countered.

"Um…" The detective tried to clear his head of the disturbing tale, and concentrate instead on the 'date'. It wasn't exactly working.

"Ask me anything." Jim spread his hands. "_Anything._"

Sherlock swallowed. "Well, how long have you known about me?"

"Before Carl Powers, believe it or not." A fond grin. "Another prodigy my age – and with such a wonderful name, too! It's why I kept Carl's shoes: to see if you'd notice." Tenderness filled his tone. "And you did."

"Why did you wait so long though?" _I was eleven when the Carl Powers case hit the news. _"That's over 25 years for us to even meet."

"Doesn't mean I didn't have an eye on you." Jim shrugged. "I knew I'd get bored with all the ordinary people, eventually, so I saved you up until I was on the brink of suicide." He laughed softly. "And you'd elected to be a _detective_ and all! And you were so beautiful. You were what I'd been waiting for all my life."

A bizarre sense of pride stirred within Sherlock at those words.

"You loved our little dance, too." The criminal gave him a knowing, appraising glance. "I made sure my name was spinning around your head long before we even met."

_Moriarty_. Even back then, the name had held so many promises.

_And even back then, you considered him a psychopath._

Swallowing, Sherlock looked down at his untouched plate. "Are you actually hungry?"

"Nope!" Jim chirped, looking unperturbed by the change of topic.

"Wouldn't it be better to just take these home and eat them tomorrow?" the detective suggested.

Jim nodded in agreement, so Sherlock quickly caught Angelo's eye and waved him over.

"We thought it might be better to save these for another time," he explained with a quick smile. "Could we please take them home?"

"_Perché no!_" the man exclaimed merrily. "I'll put them in a bag right now."

He whisked the plates off the table and hummed to himself as he strode off.

"So that was a productive first date!" Jim joked, getting to his feet.

A chill still ran down Sherlock's spine as he remembered Moriarty's description of the poisoning. _He's still an unstable man_, his mind warned him as he stood and grabbed his coat. _Be careful._

"This is usually the point where you kiss me," the criminal informed him.

Sherlock blinked. "Oh?"

"Yes." Jim looked expectantly at him. "Well?"

And despite everything, Sherlock still felt a little thrill, his heart rate speeding up a little. He took a step closer.

"I would with pleasure, but–" He glanced quickly around. "We're in public."

"And this is 21st century London," Jim countered. "Go on."

So the detective leaned over and crushed their lips together, Jim's hands on his wrists as he grasped the man's jawline, still enjoying the rush the French kissing gave him.

They dared not continue for too long, however, and broke apart to find Angelo grinning at them with a plastic bag in his hand.

Wordlessly, Sherlock accepted it, bowing his head in thanks.

"On the house, Sherlock!" Angelo reminded him, before flashing him yet another wink. "Well, good luck, you two! You're welcome back _any_ time."

And with that they were ushered out the door into the cold night air.

Cars whizzed past. Sherlock scanned the traffic for a taxi.

"We should do that again sometime!" Jim said loudly over the noise.

_Preferably without the graphic depictions of patricide,_ Sherlock thought to himself – but his musing was interrupted by a tug on his sleeve.

It was a young man, his face hidden behind large sunglasses, a hood covering his head. He held a map in his hand. "Sorry, sir, but I'm looking for this Tube station." He pointed at a circled part of the map. "Which direction is it in?"

Something was out of place, but Sherlock couldn't say what. He glanced quickly around him, then gestured to one of the roads. "Go up there and–"

His speech was cut off as he felt something sink into his neck.

Panic flared within him but was quickly dimmed as men suddenly surrounded him. The pain ebbed away as all sensation began to cease, the drugs he'd just been injected with kicking into his bloodstream, leaving his thoughts and movements groggy and unresponsive. He tried to flail desperately about but hands were pinning his arms to his sides, another one clamped around his mouth preventing him from crying out. A car stopped by the side of the road and its back door swung open, the hands shoving him roughly towards and into it. Sherlock forced his eyelids open to search frantically for Jim but the criminal was nowhere to be seen – something he was both immensely terrified about and grateful for. His struggling was futile; he was helpless; he was trapped. He wanted to scream but couldn't and the fear built up within him, tearing at his weakening mind –

_Help me, somebody help me–!_

But with a final shudder his body gave up – and the last thing he saw was the face of the driver turned towards him.

With a final jolt of shock, he recognised it.

_Sebastian Moran_.

Then the darkness consumed him, and everything went black.


	13. SM

_Pain._

A blinding, white, searing pain that hammered at each and every one of his senses.

Sherlock blinked hard, his eyelids still heavy, grimacing at the agony that pounded at every muscle in his body. His mind spun, and a wave of nausea came over him as he tried to lift his head.

A groan built up in his throat but remained trapped there as it failed to reach his lips – which he suddenly realised were sealed by force, a strip of what felt like masking tape gagging him.

With growing dread, he tried to move his arms – and felt a lurch of horror as he realised that both his wrists were bound tightly behind him. The same went for his ankles.

Panic rose now, blinding, sudden and terrifying, and he began to flail against his bindings, tugging desperately against them despite knowing it was futile – he was trapped. He was well and truly caught, ensnared like a fly in a spider's web.

And then he heard the laughter.

It was low and hushed, thrumming from behind him, silently roaring in its sheer _mockery _of him. Tears stung in his eyes at the sound.

"So you're awake."

The voice was surprisingly mild; effeminate, almost, with a nondescript London accent. It was vaguely familiar, and Sherlock felt a distinct sense of disgust as he recalled the speaker: Sebastian Moran.

Moran's command was curt. "Ungag him."

Without warning, Sherlock felt rough hands – not Moran's – grab him from behind, and a bright flare of pain as the masking tape was ripped off his face. The metallic tang of blood bloomed in his mouth as the skin of his lips was torn off with it.

He gasped at the sharpness of the pain and sucked in a huge lungful of air. His rasping was cut off by his captor speaking.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sebastian remarked, sounding bored.

The detective remained silent.

"ANSWER when the Boss speaks to you," Moran's henchman grunted behind him.

It hurt to talk, but Sherlock knew better than to defy him. "Sebastian… Moran… I assume."

He heard the click of someone's fingers, and a man walked around him into view. He was heavily built, his brown skin hinting at partly Jamaican descent; his head was clean-shaven and his small ebony eyes glared menacingly at Sherlock. His mouth curved downwards into a disapproving sneer. The detective recognised him at once: this was Ward, ex-member of Moriarty's network. Jim had shown him a picture of him on his phone.

The memory sent a shiver down Sherlock's spine. _Jim… where is he?!_

Ward glanced over his captive's shoulder at Moran, who clearly gestured at him to wait; for the man's hands curled into fists, but his arms remained crossed.

"This is a surprise for both of us," Moran exclaimed lightly. His voice was crisp and clear. "Sherlock Holmes. Tell me…" A small sigh. "How _do_ you know my name?"

Sherlock's mind cursed itself for having given the knowledge away. He met Ward's glare with withering contempt of his own, and pointedly ignored the question: "Where am I?"

At a signal from Moran, Ward swung his fist and thumped Sherlock in the face. Lights flashed; the detective reeled back, gasping, agony throbbing through his head.

"Let's set things straight," Sebastian snarled. "_I_ have the power here. _You_ do not. If you don't answer my questions…"

The unspoken threat hung heavily in the air. Ward smirked gloatingly, flexing his arm muscles, and Moran chuckled. "Is that understood?"

Sherlock kept his bleeding lips sealed shut, but his mind already scrambled for the excuses he would soon need.

"Now." Moran spoke slowly, mockingly, as though to a small child. "How do you know who I am?"

"Mycroft told me," Sherlock mumbled.

"Louder!" Sebastian snapped.

Sherlock swallowed hard. "Mycroft told me," he repeated more clearly. "My – my brother. After incarcerating Alexander, he warned me about you–"

"DON'T you talk about my brother!" Moran roared, and Ward bashed Sherlock on the other side of his face. Pain shot upwards to crash within his head, pulsing a dull, muddy red; lights dazzled him for a moment.

"Sorry," he forced himself to whisper, tears trailing down his cheeks.

"In answer to _your_ question," Moran began calmly, "I was merely wondering what on Earth you could be doing in the company of…" Malice dripped from his next words. "_James Moriarty._"

His abrupt changes in manner – even from just his voice – disconcerted Sherlock… and reminded him of someone. _It's a trait he must have picked up from Jim_, he realised. _Hardly surprising, considering how long they must've been together._

And yet there was something about Moriarty that made Moran seem almost… _tame_ in comparison.

Sebastian lacked Jim's extremities – his genius, his dominance, his careful passion. Sherlock had been confronted with all of Moriarty's might… and had ended up becoming his lover.

In the end, this Moran would be more than enough for him to handle.

Or so he hoped, at least…

He scanned his surroundings. They were well furnished, but the foundations themselves appeared to be of humble origin, and the room was cramped. _This must be one of London's poorer areas._ An idea of where he was began to form in his mind – not that it would help him at the moment.

Realising Ward was glaring pointedly at him, he pushed away his speculations and concentrated on Moran's question.

"Moriarty contacted me," he lied hastily.

"Oh _really_ now?" Sebastian hissed. "When?"

"He contacted me yesterday," Sherlock elaborated, the false tale spinning into shape before his mind's eye. "He reminded me he was alive, and insisted we meet again. Of course I wanted nothing to do with him, but he… he…" He swallowed. "He said he'd find a way to hurt John."

"Ah, yes! _John_," Moran remarked, with obvious spite. "Jim did mention him, once. Or twice. Or _every day_."

"What did he say?" Sherlock slipped a note of panic into his voice for credibility.

"Oh, it was always about _you_," Sebastian spat mockingly. "Even in _bed_, for fuck's sake, he was always talking about _you_. How he'd 'destroy' you and make you 'a work of art'. And how this 'John Watson' was always in the way."

"In… _bed?_" the detective gasped, feigning ignorance.

"Of course. We were _partners_."

"_Partners?_" Sherlock forced a disbelieving laugh. "Moriarty had a _partner?_"

"More like a _pet_." Even Ward winced at the sheer bitterness in Moran's tone. "It was all about the sex. I was smitten and he never really cared. It was all about _you!_"

Interpreting Sebastian's hatred as a cue to lash out, Ward raised his fist–

"No, wait." A brief silence followed as Ward lowered his arm; Moran seemed to be calming down. "This isn't about _me_, Sherlock Holmes. Tell me _exactly_ what you were doing at the restaurant with Jim."

"Talking! Nothing else!" Sherlock invented quickly. His wrists were ridiculously sore, he realised, but he'd been through far worse. "He arranged a time and a place, so I… I met him at Angelo's, at seven. It was… it was still a shock, of course." He nodded slightly to himself. "I'd spent almost three years hoping he was dead, and yet… here he was…"

"Didn't it cross your mind to capture him? To get help from the police, or your _brother?_" Moran asked scathingly.

"He said – he told me that if I tried anything, his network would hurt John." Sherlock made his voice weak and pleading. "He said he had a secret recall code, and… and…"

"He was _bluffing!_" Sebastian laughed. "_I_ control his 'network' now. He has _no power_."

"I… I didn't know." Sherlock grasped at a sudden opportunity – and although it sickened him, forced hope into his tone. "Where is he – have _you_ captured him?"

A frustrated sigh. "He's too good, that bastard. He escaped."

"Shit," Sherlock murmured, while brimming with inner elation. _Jim escaped – he got away – he's safe…!_

"What _exactly_ did he say?" Moran demanded through gritted teeth. Ward stood up straighter. "And _don't_ make me ask twice."

"His usual nonsense," the detective muttered vaguely. "Gloating about – about how he'd faked his death, and how he'd convinced me he was dead, too. And… he said… he said…" He tried to think of something convincing. "He said he'd 'ruin' me again, but – for real this time. Inch by inch. Starting with… John."

Silence greeted his words. He waited with bated breath.

_God, I hope he believes me…_

Sweat stuck his hair heavily to his brow and plastered his clothes against his body. His breaths were shallow, his eyes swollen with old tears; his head still rang painfully at the concussions he'd been given. The bindings dug into his wrists and bit into his ankles, crusted with blood, more of which lay hot and metallic among his sore lips. He was weak. He was weak, and helpless, and despite Moran's mental inferiority, one false move could still spell his end.

Ward shifted his weight from foot to foot, eyes flickering darkly between his captive and his boss. His hands could snap Sherlock's neck with ease – and, judging by his brutish smirk, he would be all too willing to do so.

"What is he to you?" Sebastian asked at last.

Sherlock blinked at the question. "Moriarty, you mean?"

"No, _the Queen_," Moran snapped sarcastically.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock pursed his lips.

_My client, my flatmate, my lover._

"My arch-enemy," he said aloud.

A short, impatient huff behind him. "And were he at your mercy, what would you do?"

_Kill him_, he was about to lie, but stopped himself.

That would seem too excessive – that would make it clear that he was just playing along with Moran's demands. He needed something more realistic. Something he would have said before his and Jim's… _connection_.

"I would… call my brother," he explained slowly, "and ensure Moriarty's immediate death at his instruction."

Another silence stretched out. Sherlock closed his eyes. _Please let that convince him. For god's sake, get me out of here._

And Sebastian stepped forward.

Sherlock craned his neck to see him, sending lances of pain down his spine. Moran was dressed in a simple grey shirt, stretched tightly over ridiculously well-defined muscles. He looked just like Sherlock remembered: fine, angular features; lanky, light brown hair; creamy white skin. His sunken, weary brown eyes scanned his captive's face searchingly, trying to determine whether he spoke the truth. Sherlock met his gaze unfalteringly.

"So you're… against him too?" the detective whispered, as an extra touch.

Moran's lips curled upwards into a sneer. "I will _kill_ him," he breathed, a murderous smile sneaking onto his face. "I promise you, I will _end_ him if it's the last thing I do."

For a horrible moment, Sherlock almost believed him.

"Then – then let me _help_ you," he forced himself to say, struggling against his bindings to lean towards his captor. "Moriarty will come back to me – I know he will. He's obsessed."

"_Infatuated_, for fuck's sake," Moran growled.

"Exactly. And – and–" He gasped as though a brilliant idea has struck him. "I'll pretend I don't know he's bluffing – I'll pretend I still think he has power. I'll make him think he's manipulating me – and I'll contact you!"

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "Why contact me, and not your brother?"

He was testing him – but an answer sprung to Sherlock's mind.

"Because I know you'll make him suffer first."

A brief expression of surprise flitted across Moran's features; he drew back sharply… then seemed to nod to himself.

Relief flooded through Sherlock. _Perfect – that's convinced him. Thank god…_

"We can lay a trap for him. Together," he persisted, before Sebastian could change his mind. "He'd never _dream_ I'd help you. He'll fall for it – hook, line and sinker."

Moran was deep in thought. He observed his captive, calculatingly, before allowing himself to utter the words – "It could work."

A completely genuine smile split across Sherlock's aching face.

His captor turned to Ward. "Free him."

Ward gaped at his boss. "What? But–"

"Are you disagreeing with me?" Moran cut him off sharply, with a glare as cold as ice.

Shaking his head furiously, Ward moved stiffly, digging a switchblade out of his pocket. He advanced towards Sherlock, flashing him another glare for good measure.

Sherlock did his best to remain completely still as the henchman dug the knife into the bindings, sawing against them; with a snap, his right wrist broke free, and he instantly snatched it to his chest. With the release of his left he clasped them together, rubbing against the sore spots the binds had made with obvious relief.

When at last even his ankles were free, he stood shakily, only to collapse straight back into his chair with a groan. Moran looked down at him condescendingly… and stretched out his hand towards Ward.

It took the man only a moment to understand what he meant.

With another small smirk, he dropped the switchblade into Sebastian's open palm.

Fear flickered within Sherlock's chest.

Moran stood over him, a faint smile on his lips. Suddenly he snatched the detective's left wrist in a vice-like grip, tugging at it to expose the soft flesh of the underside of his arm.

"I'll need to guarantee your loyalty," Sebastian exclaimed calmly, while Sherlock stared at him, wide-eyed. "I need you to know exactly what would happen were you to defy me."

And with that, he raised the knife.

"Keep still," he ordered, with another sadistic smile.

Sherlock's pulse was erratic, and he felt an awful sinking feeling in his stomach as he watched the blade's point lower slowly towards his skin – but he forced himself to stay still.

_You have to do this_, he told himself shakily. _Do it for freedom. For your life. For Jim._

He winced as the point dug into his skin and a slow hiss seeped from his lips at the sharp pain it brought. A trail of blood followed the route Moran carved, welling up and trickling slowly down his arm. The wound stung terribly and he fought against the urge to yank his hand away, knowing that he _had_ to do this. He closed his eyes tightly and pushed away the agony.

At last it came to an end, and his eyes cracked back open. Moran stood with his back to him, polishing the knife with his shirt. Sherlock grimaced at the blood dripping from his arm, and his other hand sprung up to apply pressure – but not before he saw what Sebastian had carved into him.

_SM._

Sebastian Moran.

"Let that remind you," his captor sighed, "whenever you feel like double-crossing me."

Sherlock's arm was throbbing, but the cut wasn't too deep – the blood flow was already beginning to ebb. The stinging pain, however, would remain for some time.

"Give me your phone," Moran then demanded.

Cringing at the jolts it sent along his arm, Sherlock reached into his pocket and drew out his phone. Wiping the surface with his thumb, he grudgingly unlocked it before holding it out for Sebastian to take.

Moran whipped out his own phone and, after silently tapping at Sherlock's for a while, turned back to his own – evidently copying down the detective's number.

_Jim would've been able to memorise it,_ Sherlock thought to himself.

"I will call you when I feel like it," Sebastian informed him, handing him back his phone, "and you _will_ answer everything I ask. This is a difficult operation, and I need complete and utter trust in everyone involved." A pause. "Otherwise…"

Ward grinned.

"I understand," Sherlock acknowledged obsequiously. He stood up again, slowly, leaning against the chair for support while tucking his phone back into his pocket. "And I'll contact you the moment Moriarty gets back in touch with me."

"Of course," Moran responded sharply.

A brief silence passed as they watched each other warily – then the sniper stretched out a hand.

"I look forward to working with you, _Sherlock Holmes_," he remarked with a sly smirk.

Sherlock shook the man's rough hand with an equally false smile.

At a gesture from Moran, Ward picked up a long black scarf and walked over to Sherlock. After giving him an appraising glance, he prodded the detective's shoulder, spinning him around – and quickly clamped the makeshift blindfold over his eyes.

It worked perfectly: Sherlock was completely blinded, and stumbled a little as the henchman gave him another unnecessary shove.

"Enough, Ward," Sebastian ordered. "Take him back. Baker Street, 221B, was it?"

"Yes, sir," Ward growled, pressing a hand into Sherlock's back to lead him forwards.

"You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock," Moran called after his retreating figure with a final laugh.

Sherlock smiled a little as he took the labouring steps.

Jim had told him the same, once.

Ward suddenly halted and released him, almost making him topple to the ground if it weren't for the wall he now found in front of him. Sure enough, he heard the _click_ of a lock, and the soft _crack_ of a door opening, before Ward clamped his hands back down on his shoulders and shoved him forwards again.

Sucking in a lungful of the fresh outside air, Sherlock relaxed, allowing himself a shuddering sigh of sheer relief.

_Oh, god, I made it out of there…_

Ward led him onward, doubtless to a car waiting to deposit him at his flat.

_Back to Baker Street._

The turn of events had been… terrifying, and painful, yet… interesting. _Now Moran thinks I'm in his employ._ The wound on his arm burned; co-operation would be a difficult ruse to keep up. Yet now, having met his new enemy, Sherlock felt certain he could handle him.

_And besides, Jim's on my side._

At the thought of the consulting criminal, his heart sped up a little. _How is he now?_ he wondered, and felt a pang of sympathy. _I bet he's worried._

He heard the squealing of a car's tyres, and let a satisfied grin sweep across his face.

_But he needn't be. I'll be home soon._


	14. Lover-boy

Cold wind lashed at Sherlock's coat as, with slightly tremulous hands, he tightened it around himself. With a purr behind him, the black limousine that had driven him here pulled away, leaving him facing the entrance to his flat alone.

221B Baker Street.

Where, no doubt, Jim would be waiting for him.

Taking care not to exert his left arm – which still throbbed with the wound Sebastian had inflicted – Sherlock fumbled in his pocket for his keys, fished them out, and tenderly unlocked the door, his open palm nudging it open.

The air was eerily still; the flat was completely silent. Its familiar smells and comforting warmth drifted around him, pressing close to him as he shrugged out of his coat and left it hanging by the front door.

Every creak of the steps sounded amplified, every movement stretched out.

_What if Jim's not here?_ he thought suddenly, with a flash of panic. _What if he got hurt running away? What if something's happened?_

He shoved the depressing possibilities out of his mind, knowing it was futile to begin worrying about the criminal before he even checked their rooms. Calming himself with a sigh, he placed a hand on the doorknob – hesitated – mustered his courage – and opened it.

His gaze flickered across the room – and his heart gave a terrible lurch.

Jim was there.

Oh, god, he was there all right…

Moriarty lay limply on the sofa, a rugged and crumpled form. His limbs were splayed out in all directions; his hair ruffled; his eyes tightly closed.

One hand dangled off the edge of the armrest.

Blood trickled slowly down its fingers.

With a hoarse cry, Sherlock ran to him, a sob bursting from his lips as he took it all in. A neat array of cuts adorned Jim's hanging arm, gently weeping the crimson droplets. The detective snatched at it; a faintly stained knife lay abandoned on the floor beneath it, clearly the culprit. He turned the pale wrist sharply upwards, exposing all the slices on the arm with a jolt of horror. Oh, god, there were so _many_ of them. And they were so _deep_. And they must have hurt so, so much.

At Sherlock's touch, Jim's eyes cracked open, staring unseeingly into the world for a moment before quickly sharpening and focusing on his lover's teary gaze. They were like pools of melting dark chocolate – bittersweet and cloying – and despite everything, Sherlock felt a surge of an unfathomable, forbidden love for this man – this broken, vulnerable man lying so shattered before him.

"Jim," he breathed, trying to keep his voice calm. He was huddled against the criminal, cradling and caressing him with his free hand. "Jim, oh god, I'm here. I'm here."

"Sher…lock…" Moriarty's voice was low, and the word slightly slurred, as though from an immeasurable exhaustion. "You… came back… for me?"

A thick, hot tear plummeted from Sherlock's eye. "Of course," he replied hoarsely, placing a kiss on one of Jim's half-closed eyelids. "I came back for you. Didn't you think I would?"

"Sebastian took you," Jim whispered, the rest of his body still unmoving. "I thought… something had happened. I thought you might be… dead…"

Sherlock shushed him, stretching his own aching left arm behind Jim and pulling him up to a sitting position. He sat down in the space that had been made between Moriarty and the armrest, leaving Jim's bleeding arm lying numbly on his lap.

"I'm not dead," he reminded the criminal, with a cracked smile. "I'm back now and I'm all right. You have to be strong now."

"I don't want to be strong." Now it was Jim's eyes that leaked the tears, and his tongue that betrayed him. "I'm done with strong. I'm done with… pretending."

"You don't have to pretend!" Sherlock assured him, wiping away a tear with the tip of his thumb. "I know you were worried. I wanted to come back. Now I want you to just be you."

The cuts were still oozing blood. Sherlock searched wildly around for anything to clean them with, but all medical supplies were in the bathroom. He ran a hand through Jim's messy hair, once, lovingly. "Stay right here. I'll be back in a second."

He dashed to fetch what he needed – disinfectant, cotton wool, bandages, tape. Cramming them into his arms, he didn't even bother closing the door behind him as he rushed back, depositing them onto the stretch of sofa that Jim wasn't occupying.

Kneeling down before Moriarty, he couldn't help but look up at him and back into that strange, detached gaze. Sorrow pricked at the corners of his own eyes, threatening to spill out again, but he kept it at bay, grabbing the cotton wool instead. Hastily, he sprayed disinfectant all over it.

"Don't worry, it's going to be OK," he warbled, biting his lip. These cuts were bad. Some looked like they needed stitches. But he couldn't exactly take Jim to the hospital.

_I can't believe he'd do this to himself_.

First he wiped the skin clean as much as he could, before throwing the wad of cotton – now stained a horrible red – away and reaching for another, spraying this one too.

"This might hurt," he muttered under his breath, not that he needed to.

With the utmost care, he dabbed at one of the cuts – and tried to ignore Jim's sharp hiss of pain because of it. With grim determination, he began to work at the incisions, ensuring that each and every one of them was disinfected and cleaned to the best of his abilities. He kept his gaze fixed on the wounds, trying to forget who the arm was attached to, trying not to hear the little pained sounds Jim couldn't help but make.

It was torture.

And it hurt Sherlock in more ways, if that was possible, than Jim had hurt himself.

Soon, thankfully, it was over. All Sherlock could do was apply some soaked chunks of cotton wool and dribble disinfectant over the worst of the wounds before tenderly yet firmly stretching the bandages over everything.

Tearing off the last strip and fixing it into place, Sherlock observed his handiwork. He'd done everything he could. Everything within his power to do.

And it had hurt like hell.

Neither of them could say anything for ages. Jim had finally broken loose from his dazed state, and had just watched him work, a steely, feverish look in his eyes.

Finally Sherlock let himself speak. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and sank onto the sofa beside Jim, where he'd placed himself before.

"Why?" was all he could ask.

Jim looked down at his freshly bandaged arm with a mixture of regret and shame. "I couldn't bear it," he responded quietly, a tiny tremble in the soft Irish tones that Sherlock loved.

"Bear what?" Sherlock replied helplessly, although he knew the answer.

"The not knowing," Jim gasped, "if you were dead or alive."

Which was, in a roundabout way, exactly what Sherlock himself had gone through for three years since his fall. Clueless as to Moriarty's whereabouts, as to whether he'd actually shot himself or not.

And how _awful_ he'd felt, finding out the criminal was actually alive! It had created absolute turmoil within him; a terrible mixture of anxiety, anticipation and – strangely – relief.

_But hadn't that been different?_ He searched Jim's gaze. _Because that was before Jim and I – Jim and I, we…_

_If he disappeared now,_ he thought to himself with a shudder, _I'd be a wreck too._

"But you didn't have to resort to… _this_," Sherlock said now, one hand clasping Jim's. His thumb circled ceaselessly over the skin stretched tightly across the man's knuckles. Moriarty's hands were so very _old_, he realised suddenly. The blue veins rose like ridges on the backs of them, and the pale, lined skin inside seemed almost… _withered_. Tired. Like they'd seen enough already.

Sherlock didn't know Jim's precise age, but had always assumed it was similar to his own. Neither of them were very young, then. Not any more. They were in their late thirties. By now they should have settled down with partners, begun raising the children they wanted to, and begun leading a mundane, ritualistic life of domestic bliss.

How long did they have left? Thirty to forty years, if they were lucky. Considering their lifestyles – particularly Jim's – possibly less time than that. And then…

And then what?

Then everything would be gone.

Everything they'd lived, everything they'd loved, everything – gone. Erased from existence in the blink of an eye. And it would only be a matter of years before they were erased from all memory too.

Life all seemed so pointless.

Sherlock took Jim and kissed him. A deep, full on kiss on the lips, closing his eyes tightly, and holding onto him. Desperately. Drowning.

Jim froze for a moment in surprise before gently lifting his arms and wrapping them both around the detective's neck, kissing him back. Moriarty's lips tasted like blood and tears and Sherlock crushed them against his own, his mind numb and empty but for the single thought throbbing through his head, words he'd never said aloud but words he felt burning within him with a scorching white heat.

_I love you_

They pulled apart and Sherlock buried his head against Jim's chest, their arms around each other, both of them hurting, both of them not knowing what to say. It was like the whole shock of the abduction had just worn off, and now Sherlock was back – he was truly back. And they had never realised just how much they had meant to each other, until he'd been taken away – and then returned.

_I love you_

Maybe Sherlock said it then, whispered it, let the words slip from his lips into existence. In the end it didn't matter. They both knew it. They both felt it, pulsing through every drop of blood left in their veins. And so they held each other tight. And so they remained.

_I love you._

Eventually, reluctantly, Sherlock straightened, ice-cold eyes settling onto Jim's rich black ones with unspeakable adoration. He sat where he'd sat before, right beside the criminal, so they could clasp hands and feel each other's warmth.

A smile began to curl at the edge of Moriarty's swollen lips. The corners of his eyes crinkled up with the wrinkles Sherlock loved so much, because they made him look so much more alive. His own lips hesitantly twitched into a matching grin.

And then they were laughing. It spilled out of them, exhausted delight, low and breathless; they hugged each other and shared clumsy kisses, and they laughed. And everything was all right. Everything was all right now.

When Sherlock finally quietened he found himself with his head on Jim's shoulder, his lover softly tracing patterns along his thigh. It send shivers through him and he watched him as he did so, those tired but lovely hands running up and down on his jeans, carefully, lovingly. He sighed deeply, feeling a sense of harmony and content for the first time in what felt like forever.

And then Jim whispered, "Let's dance."

Sherlock sat up, blinking at him in disbelief. "What?"

"I found a tape, you know?" Moriarty continued nonetheless. He sounded tired and happy and a little bit shy. "Sebastian and I, we… we'd make tapes all the time. Recordings."

"Of what?" Sherlock inquired, ignoring the acrid feeling that rose within him at Moran's name.

"He would record me," Jim explained, quietly. "Playing the piano, and singing, and… that kind of thing."

"Did he ever join in?"

Jim shook his head adamantly. "He recorded. And he listened. Nothing more." A pause. "Well, he picked the songs. He loved it, always, and we'd listen to them for hours afterwards. The same songs, on repeat, while we…" He swallowed, looked at his hands. "Drank whisky, and… um…"

"What sort of songs?" Sherlock cut him off, to spare them both the discomfort. They both knew what he meant.

"Anything we liked." Jim's tone seemed slightly rushed as he gladly grasped at the new topic. "Out of the ones he chose, I only picked the ones I loved. Which basically meant I ended up doing all my favourites."

Sherlock pursed his lips. He hadn't really considered how Moran and Moriarty's relationship must have had its soft moments, too. He pushed the tinges of green-eyed jealousy away. "Can I… can I hear a few?"

Jim squeezed his hand, and gave him a teasing grin. "As long as we dance to them."

The detective made a show of rolling his eyes, of huffing in mild disdain – but they both knew that he wanted to. "Oh, all right…"

"Perfect!" Jim suddenly sprang to his feet, instantly brimming with energy. Sherlock had to blink a few times to register the outstretched hand before him. "Come on. Let's go."

Sherlock took it, and was dragged to his own feet, stumbling slightly to regain his balance. Jim was tugging him to the centre of the room, absent-mindedly shoving items of furniture away, clearing the space so they could have their… _dance_. Sherlock shook his head a little disbelievingly – it was so absurd! Yet, watching Jim move about with that ceaseless fluidity and grace, he realised he _needed_ to see the man dance – _needed_ to feel his hips against his own – _needed_ to hear his voice crooning a love song while they –

He blinked hard. Before he knew it his thoughts had drifted elsewhere, somehow in… _that_ direction. He cleared his mind, hoping his cheeks weren't burning and were hiding his shame.

Jim was crouched by a set of speakers he hadn't even known he had – had the criminal taken them in from somewhere? – fiddling with the machinery. Sherlock watched him with a strange apprehension.

Moriarty looked up at him, beaming with a glimmer in his eyes before pressing _Play_.

Sherlock was tense as Jim reached out for him and slid a hand onto Sherlock's wrist, the other clasping his shoulder in the classic dance pose. He looked up and their gazes met, both of them waiting for it to begin.

The detective almost missed the beginning, despite how loudly Jim had turned the volume up. All he heard was Jim's pre-recorded voice take a deep breath, and then –

The song began.

Recognising the tune at once, Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise. It started off simply, Moriarty's voice breathy, the piano chords slightly tentative.

"_I can dim the lights and sing you songs full of sad things…_"

"Queen?" he asked, with an edge of laughter to his voice. "_Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy_, was it called?"

Jim nodded, listening to himself with an unreadable smile; and, after letting the rhythm pulse through them both for a few moments longer, started to lead Sherlock in the dance.

There was something so surreal about it, dancing with Jim; feeling their bodies so close together, moving in harmony. As though it were only a dream, to be encapsulated in memory and to taunt him when he woke up. If he closed his eyes and listened only to the music, he could envision Jim's hands flitting across the keys, playfully landing on every note of a chord before springing off to find another. He could see Jim lifting his head and letting the lyrics tumble from his lips, each note perfectly pitched; yet somehow filled with that light-hearted carelessness that Sherlock hadn't imagined anyone but Freddie Mercury himself could master.

Then they hit the chorus, and he absolutely lost himself in it.

"_Ooh, love, ooh, lo-ver-boooy,  
What're you doin' tonight, hey boy?  
Set my alarm, turn on my charm,  
That's because I'm a good old-fashioned lover-boooy!_"

"Oh my god, I _love_ this song," Sherlock gasped, coming back to his senses, shocked that he'd even managed to continue dancing. His body knew what to do.

"Same here," Jim laughed. "I think it's one of the best I've done. Although no-one beats Freddie, of course!"

_You do,_ Sherlock almost replied, but thought that might seem too pretentious – and besides, he didn't want to interrupt the music. Until hearing it like this, Sherlock hadn't really appreciated how bloody brilliant the piece was.

"_When I'm not with you, I think of you always,  
I miss you…_"

Their eyes sought each other out at that. They had nothing to say; they knew how it felt.

"_When I'm not with you, think of me always,  
I love you – looove yooou!_"

Sherlock opened his mouth, on the brink of echoing the words, but it leapt straight on to the next verse –

"_Hey, boy, where'd you get it from,  
Hey, boy, where did you go?  
I learned my passion  
In the good old-fashioned  
School of lover-boooys!_"

It made him so incandescently happy, this song. It filled him with undeniable energy and the white-hot love within him only grew brighter. He could stay like this forever, moving to the gorgeous crooning sounds of the piano and Jim's young, crisp, perfect voice. Dancing had always been his secret pleasure, and this was the best way it could be done. He felt fantastic. He felt like he could capture the world.

By the end they were both singing along.

"_Ooh, love, ooh, lover-boy,  
What're you doin' tonight, hey boooy?  
Everything's all right, just hold on tight–_"

Sherlock faltered then, wanting to see Jim finish. And that he did.

"_That's because I'm a good old-fashioned…_"

Jim opened his eyes when he realised Sherlock had stopped singing, his own voice trailing off. Their gazes met again… but with a different sort of ferocity this time.

"_…__lo-ver-boooy!_" Moriarty's recorded voice ended with a flourish.

Jim closed the gap between them and kissed Sherlock.

They stood frozen there long after the song had ended, fireworks bursting within Sherlock's chest. He could feel Jim's bandaged arm around him and could feel Jim's pulse thumping beneath his fingers hooked under his jawline; they found their own rhythm again, their tongues pressing against each other, losing themselves in their kiss. Every kiss felt new, every single heartbeat sent euphoric thrills coursing through him.

He knew what Jim was thinking, and in his mind, their voices merged to form the words.

_Love you too, lover-boy._


	15. Goodnight, Jim

It felt so different this time, lying in bed with Jim's arms wrapped around him, their faces inches apart. It felt so much more… _natural_, so much more _right_. This time, Sherlock knew what to do. This time, they would make it slow, they would make it last. They would make it not just passion, but love.

They leaned in for another kiss, their breaths gently mingling. Moriarty's stubble grazed lightly against his own; both of them needed a shave. Neither of them minded at all.

Jim smiled – a beautiful, heavenly smile – as he pulled away from Sherlock. "You act like you're the expert," he murmured teasingly, his tone deep and seductive. "But you've only done it once."

"This is how it's meant to be," Sherlock whispered in reply, silencing him with another kiss before shifting on top of him. They were both naked – that had been taken care of long ago –so now he ran his hands ceaselessly over Jim's chest, tracing the hollows of his collarbones; the gentle rises where his nipples were; the smoothness of his lean stomach.

He trailed a line of light kisses along his neck, before settling for a love bite just beneath the criminal's jaw. Jim gasped at the stinging pain it brought as Sherlock's teeth grazed against his skin, slowly sucking at it, the blood vessels already bursting into blossoming red marks beneath his lips. Jim closed his eyes, aware of nothing but the feel of them on his jawline.

When he was done, Sherlock lifted his head and his gaze ran predatorily up and down Jim's bare form, committing every shadow, every ridge of muscle to perfect memory.

Moriarty stretched himself, tantalisingly offering all of himself to the detective with a wry little grin. His dark hair was a ruffled mess, chocolate eyes blinking at his lover with false innocence.

"D'you like what you see?" he drawled, knowing the answer but just wanting to hear it from Sherlock's mouth.

"Oh, very much," Sherlock replied with a smirk, his hands exploring more of Jim's body for themselves – the swell where his arm muscles were; the stubborn ridge where his pelvis pushed at the flesh of his waist; the soft skin on the inside of his thighs. Jim sucked in a sharp breath as Sherlock's fingertips strayed ever so slightly higher.

"A… _ah_." He squirmed beneath the teasing touch, eyelids fluttering. Sherlock chuckled slightly, kissing him instead, Jim's lips so soft and plump against his, the workings of his tongue now as familiar to him as his own.

As Jim made a move to push himself up and onto Sherlock, the detective placed a hand firmly on his chest, keeping him down. Moriarty's eyes widened slightly in surprise.

Sherlock was filled with a reckless courage and confidence unlike anything he'd ever felt before. He pressed down on Jim, levelly meeting his gaze. "Let me top."

"But – are you sure you–" Jim began disbelievingly.

Sherlock placed his free finger upon his lips, quickly quietening his protests. "Let me," he repeated simply, a burning intensity in his glittering blue eyes.

And how could Jim refuse? "All right, lover-boy," he breathed, relaxing beneath him at last. Sherlock, too, allowed himself to settle more comfortably on top of him, purposefully pressing their groins closely together. The mere contact of their hard lengths visibly weakened Jim, who let out another gasp – particularly when Sherlock spread his legs and twitched his hips, straddling Jim, enjoying the power it gave him over the criminal – not to mention how the lightning bolts it sent through his own body.

"Where's the lubricant?" Sherlock growled, the low roughness of his own voice surprising him. His hand stretched out reluctantly to the items on his bedside table, rummaging carelessly through them – until at last he found the tube he'd been looking for, hastily unscrewing it and squirting more than enough into his open palm. Jim watched with a gorgeous grin as Sherlock applied the substance to his stiffened cock, running his hands impatiently along the stretched and slicked skin.

Finally, he was completely ready – and his heart began to beat even faster.

He looked down at Moriarty spread out before him.

_Oh, fucking hell. He's beautiful. How do I do this?_

Sensing his insecurity, Jim widened his legs even more beneath him, fully exposing his entrance. The wrinkles crinkled up around his eyes again as he smiled, encouragingly.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock rubbed his glistening fingers together, preparing himself, before pushing them hesitantly into Jim.

Jim froze as Sherlock's hand began to probe within him – the tight skin gave way easily enough – then gave a jerk as the detective involuntarily hit his prostrate. Jim's hands sprang up and clutched helplessly at Sherlock's arms, and he made a small, strangled sound which – bizarrely – sent a shiver of anticipation down Sherlock's spine.

He withdrew. It was enough: they were ready. He met Jim's gaze once more, planting a brief kiss onto those perfect lips, before carefully guiding himself into the criminal.

There was no way of describing just how it made him feel, advancing into Moriarty, who – with customary experience and discipline – simply closed his eyes in bliss, and sank back into the pillow with a soft moan. The plethora of sensations threatened to overwhelm Sherlock, but he steadied himself, pushing forward at a hesitant yet steady rate. It was with a jolt of surprise that he realised his cock had hit Jim's prostrate again; Moriarty's slight tightening around him at that was like a dagger of pleasure lancing through him. He pulled out of him a bit faster, only to push straight through him again, straight into another bolt of shuddering delight for them both. Gaining confidence, he sped up, repeating the action again and again, his breath coming in short huffs, his body tremblingly begging for more while Jim even began to give little groans of pleasure. The bedsprings began to creak as he rocked back and forth, back and forth, curls bouncing on his forehead, thighs meeting with a muffled clap each time.

There was a rhythm Jim liked and they found it together, Sherlock grunting and slamming breathlessly into Jim while the criminal jerked at every advance. The bedsprings' even complaints were soon drowned out by his long, drawn-out moans of keening pleasure as he juddered beneath Sherlock, who let out short, sharp groans of euphoria as he lurched back and forth, again and again – he felt a familiar scorching sensation growing within him but forced back the rising tide, determined to make this last forever. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead as he surged forward with a particularly loud groan, eyes drifting closed in the sheer agonising pleasure it brought. The bed sank beneath him at every thrust, Jim's back arching, his fingers digging into his arms at each of his ragged breaths.

It was at a whimper from Moriarty that Sherlock finally remembered just what he had to do, and one hand sprang down to wrap tightly around the base of Jim's leaking cock. Jim's eyes shocked open and he let loose a hoarse, choked cry at that, his hugely dilated pupils staring straight into his own. With perfect timing, in rhythm with his thrusts, Sherlock began to slide his palm up and down Jim's shaft, tickling its tip with the nail of his thumb every time he reached the top, never ceasing to batter and charge his way into Jim. Jim's cries grew louder and more desperate at every pump along his twitching shaft, his neck stretched out as he flung himself back on the quaking bed, leaving himself entirely at Sherlock's mercy. His wails did something to the detective, made the sensations all the more powerful, and made their spectacular finale all the more imminent. He wouldn't be able to control himself for much longer – and, judging by the sheer potency of his moaning, neither would Jim.

In fact it was the criminal who let go first. With a rippling shout, he gave an overwhelming spasm and came explosively, letting his cum streak from him, splattering messily onto their bare, dripping chests. It was his euphoric scream that did it for Sherlock. Caught as far into Jim as he could go, his whole body gave an incredible jerk and an uncontrollable cry leapt from his throat as he lost himself in the rapture of utmost bliss, cum pouring out of his shuddering cock into his lover with a blinding white elation. It was like they were touching heaven together, their hands intertwined, their jagged breaths snatched away in their united paradise.

And now, clutching each other, they plummeted back to earth; and, together, they drowned.

Sherlock's lips felt bruised with the kisses with which he had smothered Jim. He was drenched in sweat and cum – as was his lover – and his cock still gave little twitches of pleasure, sending jolts through him. When he raised himself onto his arms, they ached – in fact, every single muscle in his body ached. He collapsed onto the bed beside him with a groan, Moriarty's eyes half closed in exhaustion and in memory of what they had done. Their breaths were still ragged and uneven, but slowly calming down, their hearts beginning to cease their panicked battering.

Sherlock tucked an arm beneath Jim's neck, upon which blue and purple veins stood out and danced in a celebration of life. The wound on his left arm brushed against Jim's skin with pinpricks of pain; he tugged it back immediately to glance at it in the dim light.

_SM._

It was bleeding again, just a little; a few of the scabs had been ripped off. He pressed a hand to it to cover it up – but not before Jim saw.

"What is that?" he said sharply, removing Sherlock's hand – and gasped at it.

_SM…_

"The _bastard_," he whispered, eyes wide with horror. "That complete and utter _bastard_."

"I had to," Sherlock explained helplessly, trying to calm him. "He wouldn't have let me go otherwise."

"What _did _happen?" Jim sucked in a sharp breath as a thought struck him. "You haven't… _joined_ him, have you?"

"What? _No!_" Sherlock assured him with a shudder. He felt a slight twinge of betrayal that Jim would even consider that. "Why on earth would I?!"

Jim sank back into the pillow with a sigh. He suddenly looked so tired, so weary. "You should have mentioned it earlier. When you told me what had happened."

"I didn't want to upset you." It was the truth; Jim had already been visibly upset when Sherlock had described the day at Moran's, running his fingers along the cheekbones that Ward had struck with tears shimmering in his eyes. Sherlock hadn't had the heart to tell him what else had been done to him.

"That doesn't matter." Jim closed his eyes, wincing. "You _have_ to tell me these things."

"I'm sorry. I will next time." Sherlock ended the discussion with a kiss, sealing Jim's protestations. They worked their tongues slowly, steadily, the way lovers were supposed to do. And the detective loved it.

All Jim said when they pulled apart was, "I hope there won't be a next time." The hard look in his eyes had softened, and a smile tugged at his shining lips.

Sherlock glanced at the clock. 23:04. They were both exhausted. Heaving a satisfied sigh, he reached for the blanket and stretched it over themselves, so they could only see their faces, mere inches apart. They could feel their bodies beneath the covers, though; and Sherlock wrapped his good arm around Jim, pressing them closer together.

"Jim?" he asked softly, and the criminal looked at him.

Sherlock's brow was slightly furrowed. "There's something I don't understand."

"What is it?" Jim replied sleepily.

"I… I love you," Sherlock pointed out, and Jim's smile stretched wider – it was the first time he'd openly confessed it, after all. "I love you, and I'm pretty sure you love me–"

"I do," Jim confirmed, passionately. "I love you too, Sherlock."

Sherlock's hand reached up and trailed a finger along his lover's jawline. "And sex… is… what we're supposed to do. Right?"

"Of course." Jim looked amused at the question.

Sherlock bit his lip. "But then… why do so many people say it's wrong?"

"Sex isn't _wrong_." Jim frowned, blinking at him uncomprehendingly. "It's what we're supposed to do. Two people in love. The utmost way of showing it."

"No, I meant…" Sherlock hesitated. "Because we're two men. People think it's wrong."

Moriarty was silent for a long time – so long that Sherlock wondered whether he'd fallen asleep. But when he did reply, his voice was fierce and steady.

"They don't understand," he snarled. "They don't understand what it's like to – to _love_. Because we're not like them, they think we're the devil's work, or that we're – _disgusting_, and _immoral_. But don't you _dare_ listen to them." He met Sherlock's gaze with a burning passion. "We love each other. We're doing everything right. Don't let them tell you otherwise."

He was breathing heavily; Sherlock ran his fingers up the back of his neck through his hair, calming him. "I won't," he whispered.

Relaxing, Jim heaved a heavy sigh and closed his eyes. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

With a smile, Sherlock kissed him one more time, before sinking into the pillow beside him.

"Night, Jim."


	16. New Year

Something was ringing.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes tighter shut, hoping it would stop. Instead it carried on, insistently, a horrible screeching noise in the otherwise still air.

Jim stirred beside him, his hand brushing against his chest. With a groan, Sherlock cracked an eyelid open.

It was the phone, of course. His phone, lying on the bedside table. It let out another pitiful ring, its screen flashing; sighing heavily, he stretched his arm out towards it. The sting of pain from the wound in it brought him back to his senses, and suddenly he was a lot more awake. Wincing, he grabbed it and glanced down at the caller ID.

His heart gave a little jolt.

_John Watson._

Steadying himself with a deep breath, he swiped to the right and held it up to his ear.

"Morning, John," he said crisply, his tone perfectly casual.

Jim opened his eyes and looked up at him, frowning in mild surprise. He looked so beautiful from this angle, the soft morning light casting gentle shadows over his naked form. The sheets were tangled around him, pulled down just enough to expose the upper half of his bare chest. Their gazes met, Jim's dark eyes still blinking sleepily. Random tufts of his hair stuck up in all directions. He took Sherlock's breath away.

Who suddenly realised John had been talking to him.

He zoned back in, pressing the phone harder against his ear. "Sorry, what did you say?"

He heard John heave an exasperated sigh. "I said, what time shall we be there?"

"What?" Sherlock replayed the words in his mind; but he hadn't misheard the doctor. "What do you mean?"

"New Year's Eve!" John reminded him, with a hint of impatience. "Don't tell me you'd forgotten…"

Sherlock's jaw dropped open in shock. Jim frowned at him. _New Year's Eve!_ the detective mouthed, and Moriarty's eyes widened.

_New Year's Eve._ Where Sherlock's friends would congregate at Baker Street to stay up drinking champagne and eating things until past midnight, all to celebrate the end of the year.

What with everything that had happened, they'd both completely forgotten about it.

"Of course I hadn't," Sherlock lied, swallowing. "Why don't you come at around, um… seven?"

"_That_ late?" John asked with dismay.

"Why, what were you thinking?" Sherlock questioned, dreading the answer.

"We were thinking five o'clock at the latest," John muttered.

Sherlock cringed. "Ah. So… who's coming, again?"

"Well, I am, with Mary. Then there's Greg and Molly. I called your brother but, uh, he didn't seem interested."

"Typical." His heart sank a little at the thought of Mary, then plummeted as he realised he'd need to reveal to both her and Molly that Jim was not only alive, but _staying_ with him.

"So we'll be there at five, all right?" John insisted. "You should probably get a cake and some candles ready. I'll bring the champagne."

"All right. Thanks." He paused. "Wait, what time is it now?"

He could imagine John rolling his eyes at the other end of the line. "Past ten o'clock, ten thirty-ish."

"Already?!" Sherlock sat upright in bed, and Jim placed a comforting hand on his arm, squeezing lightly. The detective exhaled deeply. "Well, I'll see you later, then."

"Yeah…"

An awkward silence fell briefly between them.

"Sherlock…" John began.

"Yes?" Sherlock replied, as if he didn't already know what the doctor would ask him.

"Is, um…" John got to the point. "Is Moriarty still there?"

Sherlock hesitated. "Yes," he confirmed.

"Ah." John sounded slightly bitter about it. "And are you two… are you… actually…" He trailed off, unable to bring himself to say it.

"Are we what?" Sherlock pressed him, sharply.

"Are you… together?" John finally asked.

Sherlock had no idea what to say. He looked down at Jim again. The criminal had tucked his arms behind his neck, stretching his toned figure; he caught Sherlock looking at him and raised an eyebrow inquiringly. He must have read the question in his lover's eyes, for he pursed his lips and gave an almost imperceptible nod. _Go on,_ it seemed to say. _Tell him._

"Yes," Sherlock confessed bluntly.

Another silence stretched out on the phone line.

He suddenly felt a flare of cold satisfaction. _How does it feel, John?_ he felt like saying. _I'm over you. You left me and I'm completely fine. Better than I'd have been with you, in fact._

Instead what left his mouth was, "I'm not a virgin anymore."

He heard John gasp on the other end of the line, and a crackle as he dropped the phone.

And then nothing.

_Oh my god._ He covered his mouth in horror, shocked at himself. _What the _hell_ did I say that for?!_

Jim was gaping at him, his eyes wide in disbelief. He looked both stupefied and delighted.

There was a rustle as John presumably picked up the phone again. It took Sherlock a while to find his voice. "J… John… I…"

"I'll see you at five," John cut him off, his voice strained; and moments later, all Sherlock heard was the dial tone.

Jim sat up in bed, still stunned, as Sherlock let the phone slide from his fingers.

"What were you _thinking_?!" he half cried, half laughed. "Why would you say that?!"

"I don't know," Sherlock muttered miserably. "I… wasn't thinking."

Helplessly, Moriarty reached over and kissed him. "You have to be careful, Sherlock," he breathed, when they pulled apart. Then, "Would you like me to hide?"

"Hm?" Sherlock frowned, cobwebs of confusion still clouding his mind.

"During the festivities." Jim reminded him gently. "If you'd rather I just… stayed in your bedroom…?"

Sherlock pondered it. He hated the prospect of making Jim hide away, but he couldn't just suddenly parade him in front of his friends – especially not Mrs Hudson. "Maybe at the beginning," he said slowly. "Until I can… make an announcement, or… something."

"That's all right." They kissed again, more slowly, passionately. "It's all up to you."

Sighing once more, Sherlock pressed his hands to his temples. "I wish everything weren't happening at once…"

"Oh, it'll be fine." Jim's hands trailed along his naked shoulders, before dropping to his side. "Now, let's get up, shower, and get dressed. And eat."

Despite himself, the corner of Sherlock's lips pulled up into a half-smile. "I only have one shower."

Jim grinned back, wolfishly, as he understood. "Shall we shower together, then?"

Sherlock chuckled darkly, his hand reaching out to clasp his lover's. "Oh, _definitely_."

It was four thirty when the doorbell rang.

Sherlock turned quickly to Jim, gesturing wildly for the man to flee to his bedroom. With a mournful glance, Moriarty obliged, getting up from the armchair before disappearing soundlessly from sight.

The detective felt a flash of frustration as he straightened his suit, reaching the staircase. He could already hear Mrs Hudson's high-pitched voice exclaiming delightedly at the early arrivals.

"John! Ma-ry! It's been so long since I've seen you!"

Sherlock's heart constricted in his chest. _John_.

For the thousandth time, he cursed himself for the words that had slipped from his lips earlier.

"Good to see you, Mrs Hudson," John's huffed tone stretched out to him. Swallowing hard, Sherlock summoned his courage and headed downstairs.

The smile vanished from John's face as he glanced up and met Sherlock's gaze.

Mary caught his eye too with a charming grin, her fair hair tucked behind her ears, blue eyes sparkling. Her pregnancy gave her a healthy, rosy glow. Sherlock realised that, for the first time, he felt no resentment towards her at all – simply resignation. In fact, he even felt happy for her, to have someone as brave and strong and kind as John for a husband.

Evidently, nobody realised that something was out of place – yet. Smiling politely, Sherlock reached the foot of the staircase and extended a hand to her.

"Hello again, Mary." Clasping her hand, he moved coolly to John. "And John," he greeted the man simply. "You're early."

_Clearly he was hoping to catch me off-guard._ He felt another stab of annoyance. _What, as if I'd be… naked with Jim, or something, half an hour before meeting everyone._

"I brought the champagne," Mary remarked brightly, offering the bottle to him. He took it gratefully, balancing it in his palm.

"Sherlock was baking this afternoon," Mrs Hudson informed them, happily. "It smelled lovely!"

"You don't know how to bake cakes," John pointed out sharply.

"But I _do_ know how to make muffins," Sherlock responded calmly.

He and Jim had baked them earlier: bananas, chocolate chips and walnuts. The criminal was a surprisingly good chef. "They're cooling upstairs," he added. "Do you want some now, or should we wait until the others arrive?"

"No, that'll be fine," John stated gruffly. "But we'll be heading upstairs anyway."

Sherlock smiled courteously, stepping aside. "Of course; go ahead."

Avoiding his gaze, the doctor stormed up the stairs, taking Mary by the hand. With a startled expression, she followed him, throwing Sherlock a questioning glance which he pretended not to notice.

Mrs Hudson frowned at their retreating backs, turning to him with her eyes filled with worry.

"What's the matter with him?" she stage-whispered, frowning.

Sherlock sighed, feigning nonchalance. "I suppose he's angry with me, Mrs Hudson."

"But why?" She looked so genuinely upset that he had to feel sorry for her.

"I don't know. But I'm sure that if I talk to him, we'll be fine," he lied soothingly. _If only it were that simple._

Her lips were a thin, worried line. "Well, go ahead and talk to him, then," she told him. "I'll wait for the others to arrive."

He nodded, forced another smile, and hurried back upstairs.

Mary had settled down in John's armchair, and her husband had a hand placed on her shoulder. "I hope you don't mind me sitting down, Sherlock," she called out as he entered. "The baby's getting heavier every day!"

"Oh, no, not at all," the detective assured her, gesturing to John to offer the second chair. But John didn't notice; he was too busy staring at Sherlock's bedroom door.

Which was closed.

Just like it had been when he'd hidden Janine…

"Would you like to sit down, John?" Sherlock enunciated, his teeth slightly gritted.

Flashing him a hollowed look, John shook his head quickly – then glanced at the chair Mary was sitting in, and winced.

_I suppose he's figured out that it's Jim's armchair now._

Sherlock cleared his throat loudly. "Tea?"

"Ooh, yes please," Mary gushed, then glanced at her husband, expecting him to echo her. He just nodded stiffly.

Sherlock found that his movements were filled with a strange grace as he went to the kitchen to prepare it. The faint whiff of banana and batter still lingered there. He smiled to himself as he remembered the petty arguments he and Jim had had, making the muffins.

_"__Why didn't you take the butter out of the fridge first?!" Jim rounded on him, looking awfully domestic with a wooden spoon in one hand and a bowlful of batter in the other. He groaned as he saw what little progress Sherlock had made. "And you're _still_ not done with mashing the bananas?"_

_Sherlock pressed his fork into the soft yellow bulk, feeling it give way and become a shapeless mess before he heard the _clang_ of the metal striking the glass bowl. "I'm almost done," he pointed out weakly, repeating the process._ Clang.

_Moriarty sighed wearily, placing his stuff on the counter and impatiently stretching out a hand. He looked so adorable in Mrs Hudson's apron that Sherlock couldn't help chuckling as he relinquished his items. The criminal shot him a killing glare._

_"__Don't…" he warned, following Sherlock's gaze, but he still smiled back a little as he attacked the bananas on his own._

_Sherlock was surprised at how quickly and fiercely he worked, the fruit soon turning into a pulpy golden liquid which he expertly transferred to the larger bowl. The detective leaned forward to watch the substances being whisked together, Jim's arm muscles straining as he stirred with the spoon. When he was satisfied, he let it go with a _thud _onto the counter._

_"__Unlike most recipes, I've always added bananas at the end," he absent-mindedly informed the detective, wiping his hands on his apron. "It takes a lot more effort and it's harder to distribute evenly, but once you manage to, I like the flavour a lot more." He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, then picked up the spoon again. He observed the batter still clinging to it for a moment, before bringing it to its mouth and licking it clean._

_"__It tastes great," he informed Sherlock, who was staring at a tiny bit of batter still caught on his bottom lip._

_"__You've got – there's just–" he tried to explain, but there were no napkins anywhere and Jim was just watching him in confusion, so he had no choice but to simply step forwards and take Jim's face in his hands and Jim's lips against his own._

_The rich, cloying taste of the batter was nowhere near as sweet as the taste of their kiss._

The kitchen timer beeped at him, dragging back into immediate reality. The tea was ready – he was unsurprised to find that he'd been moving on automatic, and that two brimming cups of tea were steaming on the very counter before which he and Jim had…

With a loud cough, he wiped the smile off his face, expertly plucking the teabags from the teacups, and fetching milk from the fridge. He never took tea without milk, and tried to remember if John and Mary did too.

Then he realised his mistake. He'd only made two cups: two which, under ordinary circumstances, would have been for himself and for Moriarty.

He frowned. He hoped his guests wouldn't call him out on that – well, one guest in particular. He, instead, would unfortunately just have to do without tea.

Placing the cups gently onto a platter and turning one of them to the left-hand side for John – who, like Jim, was left-handed – he lifted it up and walked back into the living room. The married couple was laughing at something, but John's beaming smile faltered as he glanced at Sherlock. He immediately tore his eyes away and bent down to kiss his wife.

She was surprised by that, clearly, and Sherlock resisted rolling his eyes. _So he wants to make me jealous?_ The pair broke apart almost immediately. He allowed himself an inner smile. _Oh, Jim and I would have carried on for much, much longer._

He fluidly placed the platter on the table before Mary, holding up the milk. "Do you take it with milk?"

Mary nodded, and murmured her thanks as Sherlock poured just enough for her. He lifted it to her with gentlemanly care.

He turned to John. "And you?"

The doctor looked crestfallen for a moment, then curtly replied, "No thanks. Actually, I'd rather just… not have any tea."

_Had he expected me to remember worthless details, like whether or not he takes milk?_ _For god's sake. _Shrugging, he poured a generous amount of it into the other cup, turning the handle back the other way. _Well, at least I can have some now._

He lifted it to his lips and, after a questioning glance at John – who hardly seemed to notice – slid into his own armchair. The hot liquid warmed his throat, and he gave a satisfied exhalation at its familiarity.

"Orange Pekoe?" Mary recognised the taste. He raised his cup to her in a mock salute. _Another tea enthusiast – she seems almost British._ "I love it."

"So do I," Sherlock agreed.

"You only ever used to drink Earl Grey," John muttered darkly.

"Well, it's very particular." Sherlock leaned back in his chair. "One can only have so much Earl Grey before growing tired of it."

"And a good thing, too," Mary chipped in cheerfully. "It tastes _awful!_"

The detective grinned. Jim had said the same.

"So, how are you, Sherlock?" she began, with a fond twinkle in her eyes. He lifted and lowered a shoulder, unwilling to make any more comments for John to nit-pick at.

"You look well," she pointed out, with a hint of surprise. "Really well."

John smothered a bitter laugh and muffled words that sounded something like _'Well, you would be_.' Sherlock didn't even look at him.

"Well, you know." He spread his hands. "I've just been saved from deportation!" He stopped himself from adding _by Moriarty_, careful not to mention the criminal. "I'm back in London, free again. And soon it'll be the New Year."

"True." She paused, then gave him a wary look. "Now, I just have to warn you – stay off the drugs, all right?" She placed a protective hand on her belly, as though wondering if Sherlock would become a bad influence on the baby. He couldn't really blame her. "I'm sure Mycroft or Greg will find you some new cases. And we'll need help when Alice's born." She paused, then blustered at her words. "Only if you want to, of course–"

"I'd love to," he told her truthfully. _Alice_, he thought. _Alice Watson_. It worked well, he had to say. He had no idea what he would have chosen, but it probably would've been far worse.

Her expression softened into a relieved smile.

"Have _you_ thought about getting children, then?" John broke in, with a harsh smirk.

Sherlock blinked. "I… would be an awful father," he said slowly. _What is he playing at? He knows I wouldn't sleep with women, anyway._

"How do you know?" John challenged. "Why don't you adopt kids together and find out?"

Mary frowned in confusion at his choice of words – _adopt? Together?_ – but Sherlock spoke quickly to deflect attention from them. "I'm a high-functioning sociopath who delights in solving exciting and gruesome murders as an alternative to getting high. I doubt fatherly skills would come naturally to me."

They stared unblinkingly at each other for several moments, faces stormy.

_It could have been us_, he'd imagined himself telling him over and over again, on his and Mary's wedding day.

And now he could imagine John telling him the same, about what he'd said on the phone. _It could have been us._

But it turned out not to be. It was just like Jim had said – _you and John were never meant to happen._

Now they both just had to get over it – and Sherlock liked to think he already had.

"Oh, what is _wrong_ with you two?" Mary broke the silence at last, her gaze flickering uneasily between them. "What _happened?_ Do we have to be like this _now_?"

Sherlock looked across at her and tried to smile comfortingly. "Sorry, Mrs Watson," he sighed. "There's just been so much going on lately."

John looked down, scowling disapprovingly, and grudgingly relented. "I'm sorry, Mary," he said quietly, and wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders.

Then the doorbell rang again.

The others had arrived. Sherlock glanced at a clock nearby: it was ten to five. He wondered if John had instructed _everyone_ to be early, in hopes of catching him out. He felt a cold anger coiling within him. _He's being ridiculous._

"Molly! Gregory!" Mrs Hudson's delighted voice rang out through the house, cutting straight through the cold silence that had fallen between them again. "_So_ good to see you! Oh, Molly, you look _lovely!_" The young woman's reply was inaudible. "The others are all upstairs. Let's go on up, then." She raised her voice even more, calling out to them. "_Yoo-hoo!_ Greg and Molly are here!"

Sherlock stood, straightening his suit again, and made his way to the door. He waited at the top of the staircase, smiling warmly at his friends climbing upwards.

Lestrade clasped his hand in an enthusiastic handshake. "Hello again, Sherlock," his gruff voice greeted him, then he turned and offered a hand to Molly, helping her up the last few steps. "Hi, Sherlock," she said timidly.

She really did look pretty – her gleaming chestnut hair was curled at the edges and fell past her shoulders in waves. She'd cut it recently, displaying long, twinkling silver and jade earrings. Her lipstick was a soft pink and, for the first time since he'd met her, she was wearing eye make-up – her eyeshadow was an even gentler pinkish shade, while her eyeliner and mascara made her hazel eyes larger and more quietly alluring. Her dress was casual, dark turquoise blue with long sleeves, reaching past her knees, and her smooth, shaved legs were just visible above her simple high heels.

He raised an eyebrow at her. "You _do_ look lovely," he complimented her, giving her a quick, customary kiss on the cheek.

She grinned at him brightly, her hand still in Lestrade's. "Thanks."

The inspector led her into the living room, where he finally let go and clapped a hand on John's back. They shared greetings too, Greg's handsome, rugged looks easing into a smile.

Molly had gone to say hi to Mary, resting a hand on her shoulder as she began to stand up. "Don't, you're pregnant!" Thanking her with a laugh, they began to talk about the baby.

Sherlock hung back, and Mrs Hudson came to stand beside him, beaming at the scene.

"Did you make muffins?" Molly asked him, spotting them on a nearby table.

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed. "Banana, chocolate chips and walnuts. I thought they'd be a pleasant change from the usual cake."

"Molly, you look amazing!" John told her, too enthusiastically, flashing Greg a – congratulatory? – look. She blushed a little and thanked him.

"Well, happy New Year's Eve then, everyone!" Mrs Hudson clapped her hands together happily, her voice fond and loving. "And this time next year, there'll be a baby with us too, right, Mary?"

And again, the woman – ex-spy, ex-assassin, always a liar – placed a hand lovingly and protectively over her swollen stomach, where John's daughter grew.

"So…" The landlady spread her hands. "Now that we're all here–"

"Oh, _are _we?" John cut her off sharply.

Everyone's gazes snapped to him.

Including Sherlock's.

_Oh, no._

"Sorry, Mrs Hudson," he said, but his eyes were settled firmly on the detective. "But I think one of us is missing. Isn't that right…"

He let a tantalising pause hang in the air, a cruel smile spreading across his face.

"…_Sherlock?_"


	17. Call me Jim

All attention turned upon Sherlock.

He was staring at John in horror, slowly shaking his head in disbelief.

_Is _this_ how it's going to be?!_

John's eyes flared with triumph, his horrible smirk still in place. His arms were crossed, everything about him posing the smug challenge: _go on. Talk your way out of _this_ one._

Sherlock's mouth was dry. He licked his lips, avoiding the gazes fixed upon him. _Say something_.

He kept his tone cool and neutral. "What are you talking about, John?"

"Oh, don't give me _that_," John snapped immediately; Mary gasped at his tone. "You know full well who I'm talking about."

"Clearly not," the detective replied icily. His heart was racing. _I can't believe he's doing this._

"Oh _really_ now?" John's voice dripped with harsh sarcasm. "Look around you. All the people you hold dear – but who's missing from here, I wonder?"

"_No-one_," Sherlock forced through gritted teeth. "My brother refused to attend. And all my friends are here." He tried to brush the subject aside. "Now, shall we get on with the–"

"Ah, yes, your _brother_." John cut him off with a sneer. "The funny thing is, he mentioned something, once. Something I realised was true."

And he stretched out a hand to point at Sherlock's bedroom.

"You never," he artfully declared, "close your bedroom door."

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat.

_He's thought hard about this… _Cold fury flared within him.

_It's only going to get worse – I have to make him stop._

"It's been years, John," he attempted to dismiss. "Now I _do_ close the door – and so what? Things change. People change."

"Oh, yes, they do!" the doctor agreed, too enthusiastically. "For example, I never realised you were so adept at _sexual relationships!_"

"_What?!_" Molly gasped in dismay, despite herself. She wasn't the only one. Everyone's expressions had suddenly frozen into shock and disbelief – besides John, whose victorious grin was unwavering.

Sherlock closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

_Think rationally. Let the rage come later. Right now, just think _rationally.

And yet he could see that there was no way out of this predicament. There was only one way to beat John now – and that was by letting him win.

"Sexual relationships," Sherlock repeated slowly – and his heart sank a little as he saw the faces around him grow paler at his imminent confirmation of it. "Is that how you see things, John? Do you have to reduce everything to mere _physical gratification_?"

Surprise was painted on John's features – he hadn't expected Sherlock to give in so easily. "Well, what is it, then?" he replied weakly, unable to think of a better response.

"John," the detective said softly – and as he wondered how to put everything into words, a plethora of fragmented memories swept through him. Jim ruffling his hair in the morning light; the wrinkles forming around his eyes as he smiled; the sound of his ragged breaths as they explored each other; his plump lips arching into a mysterious half-smile, before leaning into a kiss. And with it came the most intense, most profound feeling of _love_ for the criminal, stretching an unstoppable grin across his face.

And then he realised – _Why should I hide this? Why should I care what they think of us?_

Jim's soft voice echoed through his mind, words he'd told him just the night before: _We love each other. We're doing everything right. Don't let them tell you otherwise._

Courage thrummed through him. His hands curled into fists, and he took another deep, calming breath. _Now is the time._

"All right," he murmured. A flicker of nervousness lanced through him. _I'm actually going to do this._

It was as though everyone was holding their breaths, waiting for him to continue. No doubt Jim, too, was listening through the bedroom door.

He closed his eyes, steadying himself, before spreading his hands before him. Like an actor addressing an audience, nothing more.

"Although I would rather have revealed it on my own terms," he began tentatively, "John is… partially right. I _have_ found someone."

He didn't look at his audience. He focused instead on himself; on his breathing, on his heart rate, on his confidence.

"And of course," he continued, "if you wish to call it a… _sexual_ relationship… you may well do that. But I don't see it that way." He shook his head a little, trying to gather his thoughts. "I may be a high-functioning sociopath but… occasionally… I have feelings, too. And I can honestly say – I love this person." The words brought another smile to his face, although his next words were spinning in his mind. He had to be careful not to use any gender-specific pronouns. He wasn't ready to directly _come out_ to them, after all – he would leave that until it was inevitable. "We both love each other, in… well, in a stronger way than I ever thought possible." At last, he allowed his eyes to settle on John – who stood there with his arms crossed in stunned, meek disapproval. "And I don't see the shame in that at all."

As expected, John opened his mouth to speak – and Sherlock raised a hand to quieten him.

"No doubt John wishes to shock you even further by revealing the identity of my… lover," he told everyone quickly. "And I do agree – it _is_ shocking. And I know you'll find it scary, and a highly unwise choice. But I can assure you…" He swallowed, glancing at the floor. "I love this person, and wouldn't choose anyone else, no matter what."

And at last, he turned to his bedroom and concluded his speech –

"You can come out now."

For a moment there was silence.

And then, of course, the bedroom door creaked open.

Moriarty stood silhouetted in the doorway, his eyes on Sherlock. He leaned against the doorframe, not quite willing to step into the room just yet, oblivious to the horrified gazes fixed upon him.

His lips silently formed words for the detective: _I love you, too._

And then there was uproar.

Mrs Hudson actually screamed, her face turning white as a sheet, stumbling back against the wall. Molly let out a hoarse, shocked cry, recoiling at the sight of him, straight into Greg's arms – and although the inspector had already known about Jim and Sherlock's collaboration, he still looked completely stunned at the extent of their relationship. Mary's eyes were wide as saucers, her hands wrapped protectively around her swollen stomach as she gasped at the criminal; John placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, sneering at the man.

Jim raised his hands in surrender, bowing his head and taking it all in. Sherlock never tore his gaze off him, feeling a sickening feeling in his gut as his friends' words reached his ears.

"Sherlock, what have you _done–_"

"He's a _psychopath–_"

"He _kills people–_"

"Oh my _god_, he was here the _whole time_–"

"I can't _believe_ you–"

"How _could_ you–"

"Please, calm down!" Jim yelled.

And, out of sheer terror, they all fell silent.

Jim closed his eyes, an expression of pain flickering over his gorgeous features. Sherlock felt so sorry for him then – faced with nothing but fear and prejudice. Although what they were saying _was_ true…

"I know you're all afraid of me," Moriarty told them, eyes brimming with apology. "And you do have reason to be. You're right. I've killed people. I'm dangerous."

"Jim–" Sherlock tried to cut him off.

The criminal shook his head at him. "But please, give me a chance," he begged everyone instead, his eyes turning to his lover. "I _love_ Sherlock. I really do. You might not believe me but…" he trailed off, looking for all the world like a lost puppy. "I really do."

"You're a mass-murdering psychopath. Why should we give you a chance?" John growled, and all attention switched to him. Sherlock felt dismay stir within him as the others seemed to agree with him, nodding, defiance creeping into their eyes.

"Because he's telling the truth," Sherlock told them desperately, walking over to his lover to stand beside him. "You don't know Jim – not like I do. You only know the version of him that he wanted the world to see."

"And how can you be sure that you don't know the version of him that he wants _you_ to see?" John replied harshly.

Sherlock took a shuddering breath. "Because I can _understand_ him," he gushed, his hand slipping into Jim's. "I'm the only one who can match him. And he's the only one who can match me. And I love him."

John's jaw was clenched tight, and at last he fell quiet.

"Please," Jim whispered, his dark eyes settling onto each of them in turn. "I'm not your enemy. I'm on your side now. Everyone I had once has betrayed me, and now – Sherlock is all I have."

He stretched out a hand, imploringly, defencelessly.

"Please, believe me," he pleaded. "And call me Jim."

The room was still for a moment…

And then, of all people, it was Greg who stepped forward.

"You helped me solve a murder," he stated bluntly in his gruff voice. He glanced at the shocked expressions around him, and shrugged apologetically. "Yeah, I already knew he'd joined Sherlock, although I didn't know about… um… _them_." After a moment's hesitation, he took Moriarty's hand in his own. "So for the moment… Jim… I – I'll trust you." With a hard look in his eyes, as though still questioning himself about his decision, he shook Jim's hand. "I get the feeling I'll be seeing more of you now anyway, now that you two are… um." He averted his gaze from Sherlock's. "So we might as well start on good terms."

Jim's voice was hushed. "Thank you, Greg."

There was an awkward pause. Sherlock felt an overwhelming gratitude for the man – and a stirring of hope.

Lestrade turned, his eyes settling on Molly. She looked terribly uncertain – but nonetheless, she detached herself from the wall and slowly crept to his side.

Biting her lip nervously, she stretched out her fingertips to touch Jim's.

"I trust Greg," she said quietly.

"Thank you," Sherlock told her, with a weak smile.

She turned to glance up at him, her eyes filled with a mixture of fear, regret and… embarrassment. "I… didn't know you were gay."

Unable to think of a fitting reply, all he could say was, "Sorry."

Greg and Molly stepped back, Lestrade's arm around her, and they scanned the others expectantly. Sherlock squeezed his lover's hand – _I knew it. It's going to be all right._

Mrs Hudson let out a sigh. She had calmed down, and her brow was furrowed with concern.

"You're going to be living here, aren't you?" she asked the criminal, full of resignation.

A pause. "…Yes."

"Well, I'm not going to be kicking Sherlock out, so there isn't much I can do, is there?" Her gaze turned disapprovingly to the detective, but there was a trace of hurt in there, too. "You should've _told_ me, Sherlock."

"I'm sorry, Mrs Hudson," he apologised, slightly ashamed.

She raised an eyebrow, but forced out a smile, forgiving him. "But as long as you're happy with him, dear," she declared squeakily, "I'll just leave you two to it."

He bowed his head in gratitude, his heart secretly singing a little victory tune. _Now it's just Mary – and she can't just pit herself against him. That's be ridiculously hypocritical of her._

Everyone was watching her. Frowning, she loosened her grip on her stomach, pursing her lips.

"He's not the best choice, is he, Sherlock?" she scolded him lightly. "But it's your life, and… I understand, sort of." Her gaze switched to her husband. "And John, I think your grudge against them is a bit ridiculous."

John's eyes widened incredulously. He'd been watching the events unfold with a sort of disgusted disbelief.

"Live and let live!" she exclaimed. "Look at them. They love each other."

Sherlock felt his cheeks warm as his friends regarded him. He imagined how they must look, two boyfriends, standing side by side, hands clasped. _It must be painfully obvious. _He glanced over at Jim, who met his gaze, his dark eyes full of barely concealed joy. _But I don't need to hide it anymore._

"So, Jim." Mary nodded at him. "Like Greg said – a fresh start, for now."

Moriarty was grinning helplessly. "Thank you," he breathed. "Thank you so much."

Shaking his head, John turned away in disdain. Sherlock sighed, suppressing the sting of pain that brought. _Well, his acceptance would have been too much to hope for. But what do I care? Everyone else is on my side._

He cleared his throat, finally stepping away from Jim. "Now, then," he began loudly, sounding braver than he felt. "Fresh start, and all – so shall we carry on with the festivities?"


	18. So you're gay?

"Where did you _get_ all these?!"

Sherlock raised a quizzical eyebrow at Jim. The criminal was wearing a smug, satisfied and unbearably cute smile as everyone gaped at the items he'd laid out before him.

A brand-new Wii console, two remotes with nunchucks, and dozens of colourful, attention-grabbing games.

Jim pressed his lips tightly together, ignoring Molly's question. Instead, he furtively met Sherlock's gaze – and winked. Sherlock had to struggle to keep a grin off his own face.

After having loudly complained about the lack of things to do, Jim had left the flat just ten minutes ago to "go and get stuff", as he put it. Little had the detective known that Jim had meant something this… _domestic_. Although they had all been taken aback by the sheer childishness of the activity that Moriarty had picked out for them, Sherlock had to admit it was a bizarrely good idea. The games would be light-hearted, forbidden fun that would easily pass the time. It also reduced his friends' wariness of Jim – this blatant display of humanity rendered him far more approachable.

"Actually, don't answer that," Greg now interjected before Jim could reply, giving Molly a tired smile. "I don't want to have to arrest you, do I?"

Jim chuckled. "Of course not. It's New Year's Eve."

Greg gave an exaggeratedly weary sigh, rolling his eyes. Everyone was still slightly tense, Sherlock could tell – yet gradually, his friends were beginning to warm to Moriarty's presence, acting more relaxed around him. No doubt the ordinary clothing and charming demeanour helped – he hadn't even done any of his weird sing-song things yet.

Now he theatrically spread his hands. "Well, ladies and gentlemen, if you'll allow me to plug everything in while you pick what you want to play…"

With nods of assent, they shuffled aside; Lestrade bent down to scoop up the games and scrutinise them. He frowned in confused delight at the titles.

"Mario Kart?" he read, disbelievingly. "Super Smash Bros X? How _old_ are we?"

"Never too old for the classics," Mary laughed crisply, brandishing a copy of _New Super Mario Bros_.

Lestrade squinted at the cover. "Classics?" he exclaimed, shaking his head. "My Mario looked _nothing_ like that. Did yours, John?"

John had been leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. Now he looked up, feigning interest, and glanced at the cover Mary showed him. "No, not at all," he replied tersely.

"Want to try the new version of it, then?" his wife teased. "We have to pick _something_."

Greg turned to Molly, hesitantly, awaiting her decision with a mocking cringe. She smiled up at him. "Oh, it can't hurt," she told him, hanging onto his arm.

Mary beamed, her eyes scanning the back cover of the game's case. "Super Mario it is, then," she decided, glancing around her for confirmation. Even Mrs Hudson looked pleased.

"Who'll play the first game?" Sherlock asked smoothly, before fixing pointedly upon Greg and Molly – who, he'd finally worked out, were dating.

Greg shook his head in defeat, sharing a miserable glance with his girl – but everyone could tell they were secretly delighted. "Oh, all right, then…"

The game was more difficult than Sherlock had ever imagined it could be.

Greg and Molly had barely scraped a win, reaching the finish line with mere seconds to spare and whooping at the victory tune that it brought.

Molly had giggled like a schoolgirl every time her character – a strange mushroom-like creature – had "died". Sherlock couldn't understand her – because every time _his_ character ran into other mushroom-like creatures and was inexplicably killed, he felt nothing but frustration.

It was his first attempt at such a nonsensical, time-wasting activity; but Jim was obviously far more experienced. His lover was seated beside him, expertly pressing the array of buttons on his remote and sending his character speeding across the screen, demolishing all monsters in its path. Sherlock was struggling to keep up.

He'd never had any intention of playing the damn thing – but when Greg and Molly had finally won their game, they'd joined forces with Mary and Mrs Hudson to pressurise the detective into attempting the challenge himself. It was only Jim who'd managed to convince him in the end, by promising to do all the work for him.

And yet, apparently, unless he controlled his avatar to chase after Moriarty's, it died.

This was a lot more stressful than he'd thought it would be.

"Come on! We're almost there!" Jim chirped, firing some sort of fire thing at yet another mushroom. His eyes were glittering and he looked gorgeous, all smiling and happy, and it lifted Sherlock's mood a little. But not too much. He was still pissed off at the sheer uselessness of the bloody game.

"Get the Yoshi!" Moriarty suddenly exclaimed, leaving Sherlock perplexed – _Yoshi?_ As he saw Jim's character (the iconic Super Mario from the cover, obviously) leap onto one of two brightly coloured dinosaur things that had suddenly appeared, he attempted to do the same with the second. Then he successfully managed to eat one of the mushrooms that had spawned.

This game made no sense whatsoever.

Several deaths and resurrections later, they finally made it to the finish line. Their spectators overenthusiastically cheered them on, whooping along with Jim as the criminal made leap after leap after leap, killing the so-called "monsters" while Sherlock trundled miserably along, muttering under his breath. And whereas Jim leapt to the tip of the flag that was the finish line, Sherlock couldn't even make his way halfway up it.

It was finally over. Heaving a huge sigh, Sherlock disgustedly released his controller and got up off the couch, eager to leave. Moriarty grabbed onto his sleeve to stop him.

"Oh, don't be like _that_, Sherly," he told him playfully, tugging on the sleeve to pull himself up. "It was only your first try. You did great!"

Sherlock gave him a scornful glance.

Jim cupped a hand onto the nape of the detective's neck, smiling softly. "Really."

And then obviously they were kissing and all his frustrations were swept away, and the way Jim's teeth were just slightly grazing his lower lip was driving Sherlock crazy, and he snaked his hands up to run through the criminal's ruffled dark hair in retaliation, leaning forward so his curls fell over his eyes – not that he cared–

–And then they pulled apart to find everyone staring at them.

There was an awkward moment of absolute silence.

Sherlock gulped, avoiding their gazes.

_Well, we got carried away…_

He carefully disentangled himself from Jim, cheeks flushing. His heart was hammering incredibly fast. Neither of them said a word, but Moriarty looked strangely… _smug_… as he sat back down.

"So, who's going to play next?" he asked loudly, shameless. "Mary, you should have a go!"

The woman pursed her lips, carefully hiding her previous shock. "Oh, all right then," she said smoothly, hoisting herself up, one hand on her stomach. She gave Jim a pleasant smile, picking up the controller Sherlock had abandoned.

Sherlock excused himself to the kitchen for a drink.

Grabbing the glass, he found his hands were shaking. He swallowed hard again, closing his eyes.

_This is ridiculous. _He took a deep breath, trying to slow his heart rate. _They knew you and Jim were together already. That kiss changed nothing. Calm down!_

He opened his eyes to find Molly beside him. She'd joined him in the kitchen.

He felt a jolt as he met her gaze, then looked quickly away. _What does she want?_

The young woman simply took the glass from him and made her way to the fridge, extracting the cold bottle of water stored within. She popped it open and poured in a generous amount, before replacing it and walking back to Sherlock, handing it to him without a word.

"Thank you," he said weakly, taking a sip.

She watched him for a while before finally asking, "So, you're… gay?"

Sherlock pressed his lips together. _This is going to be difficult_.

"I don't… usually choose to identify as having a specific… sexuality," he began hesitantly. "It never really mattered, I never intended to engage in romantic or sexual activity–"

He stopped himself as he saw the exasperated look in her eyes.

"All right, all right." He sighed, biting his lip. "I suppose you could say I'm… homosexual."

She nodded, once, crossing her arms. It took her a moment to gather her thoughts.

"You could have told me," she pointed out.

He did his best not to wince. "I'm sorry," he said helplessly – what else was there to say? "Like I said, I… never considered it relevant."

"You loved John, didn't you?" she questioned him bluntly.

A pause. "Yes."

She smiled bitterly, in an _I-knew-it_ sort of way. "And he loved you too."

He shrugged. "I assume, despite his protestations."

She just smiled again.

"But I didn't _really_ love him," Sherlock blurted out. "Not _really_, not– not the way I love Jim."

She reached out and gently took his hand in her own. It was still trembling. She inspected it, her lips a thin, disapproving line.

"You have to be careful, Sherlock," she warned. "He's dangerous. Look at what he's doing to you."

"He's not _doing_ anything," he countered hotly. "He and I love each other. Isn't that what matters?"

It was her turn to sigh. "He's a murderer and a psychopath."

He blustered. "He's not a _psychopath_," he insisted. "I analysed him. It's all an act, triggered by his – traumatic childhood experiences–"

"And what if you _trigger _it?" she interrupted. "Have you ever done that?"

And then Sherlock remembered, of course, that night at Angelo's restaurant – the look in Jim's eyes when he'd described killing his own father; the terrible things he'd said…

Molly took his silence as confirmation, and shook her head.

"What have you got yourself into, Sherlock?"

"It's all under control," he told her stiffly. "I mean, of course, I see why you'd think he's… not my best choice of companion. But trust me, Molly." He met her gaze, and held it. "He's worth it."

She frowned. "Why, Sherlock? Is it the kissing? Is it the sex?"

He flinched.

"Can't you see how much he's changed you?" she continued. "You never used to care about any of that. He's making you do things you don't want to–"

"No he isn't!" Sherlock cut her off. "The sex, for example? That was _my_ idea!"

Her eyes widened, and she took a step back in surprise.

He calmed himself down with another deep breath.

"How did you even get together?" she asked quietly, before he could apologise for his harsh tone. "He used to be your sworn enemy. And suddenly he's your… _lover_." She seemed to choke on the word.

He shrugged dismissively. "Circumstances. And I don't regret it."

She closed her eyes, as though battling a headache. "Right," she said, wearily: she'd given up. "I see. Well, just… take care, all right?"

"All right."

He bowed his head, before forcing an apologetic smile. She tried to mirror it in return.

Then she turned, and hesitantly began to make her way back to the living room. He could hear Jim's and Mary's laughter.

"Oh, and Molly…" he called after her.

She turned, raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Sherlock?"

He lowered his gaze. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. That I'm, um. You know."

She smiled – genuinely this time. "It's all right."

"Good luck with Lestrade!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. And he meant it. They made a good couple.

"Thanks."

And with a final nod, she left him on his own.

Sherlock finished his glass of water. He found his hands were no longer shaking. He closed his eyes; he felt so tired. Why were things so stressful of late? He wished people could be straightforward, comprehending, not caught up in their own delusions. Above all he wanted time alone with Jim, now that they'd finally found each other – a chance to be happy. Didn't he _deserve_ to be happy, for once? To experience, just once, what everyone else took for granted…

Shaking his head with a sigh, he put down his glass and followed her out of the room.


	19. Yes

Sherlock gasped as Jim slammed him against the wall, the shock of the impact jarring along his spine. His breath was quickly cut off by the criminal's mouth against his own, forcefully, passionately kissing him, pinning his wrists to the hard surface. Their tongues pressed against each other, hungry, searching for more.

Much as the detective enjoyed it, he forced himself to pull away, ignoring the little leaps his heart was making in his chest. He swallowed hard to control his breathing.

"We can't," he gasped, meeting Moriarty's dark eyes, his dilated pupils. "There are – _people_."

"Not here," Jim growled in return, silencing him with another kiss.

Sherlock felt a vague sense of unease curl within his throat. Of _course_ they were the only ones in the bedroom, but his other guests were in the living room – just a corridor away. And while they were all rather engrossed in watching a film – one of those New-Year-themed, low-budget comedy ones which made Sherlock want to rip his eyes out – he didn't trust the film's capacity to cover his… _noises_.

"I _know_ they're not here," Sherlock stressed, separating himself again, "but they'll… they'll _hear_."

"Who cares?" Jim's eyes were gleaming with mischief. Sherlock looked into them and knew immediately that he wouldn't be able to resist. _Damn this. I'm in too deep._

Jim pushed him back onto the bed, and they fell onto it, the criminal clambering on top of him. Sherlock found his hands in his lover's hair; the man was placing a love bite beneath his jaw, and it was turning his thoughts to slush.

Once done, Jim's hands reached down, tugging away the trousers Sherlock wore. The detective tried to grab hold of Moriarty, to pull him closer, into a kiss, but the criminal was having none of it – he was in endless motion, and before Sherlock knew it his own lower half was completely exposed.

Trying to keep a clear head, Sherlock grasped for the lube on the bedside table and was about to squeeze some onto his hand before Jim's palm slammed down on his wrist, knocking the bottle aside.

"What?" Sherlock tried to gasp. This was unprecedented. Had he misinterpreted things? Jim's dark locks rubbed against his chest and he could feel the criminal's hands pressed against his hips. He was pushing himself down and Sherlock had no idea what was going on –

Until he felt Jim's lips close around his cock.

And then all he could think was, _oh._

Moriarty's tongue ran up and down Sherlock's shaft, once, teasingly, and the detective squirmed, his eyes widening. A gasp drifted from his throat. Jim continued, his palm closing at the base of it and his lips sliding up and down it, over and over, warm and wet and deep and –

It was unbearable. It was heaven. It was torture.

This man was the devil.

Sherlock curled his fists in Jim's hair and involuntarily pushed the man's head down onto his cock, eliciting another jolt of pleasure. He moaned, the sound almost forced out of him, the bedsprings uttering tiny squeaks every time Jim lurched forward. Sherlock's hips juddered, his legs twitching – he _wanted_ to come, he could _feel_ it growing in him, just out of reach – and yet another, crueller part of him wanted to hold out for longer, to keep the pleasure locked up within him for as long as he possibly could – anything to keep Jim going, doing this – this _thing_ he was doing, this thing that made Sherlock spasm and groan –

He could see nothing of his lover but the top of his head, which by now he was slamming down onto his painfully hard shaft, shoving himself deeper and deeper into the criminal's heavenly mouth. His breaths were coming in short, ragged gasps. Jim sped up the pace, ceaseless, his tongue always finding new places to explore while his lips still kept up with the rhythmic pumping. _Over_ and _over_ and _over_ – Sherlock didn't know how he could take it, Sherlock didn't know _anything_ anymore, except this burning, immediate, _spectacular_ sensation of the soft and wet mouth slipping endlessly onto his cock. His knuckles, twisted among Jim's bouncing dark locks, were almost white, and his own throat was emitting an inexhaustible variety of cries and grunts and helpless moans. He could feel sweat gathering at the back of his neck beneath his trembling curls, and didn't care – it was coming, he was going to come, he couldn't hold out anymore – _this was it –_

And his dull white cum pumped out of his juddering cock straight into Jim's throat, along with a cry of sheer elation from the detective whose every muscle went taut, twitching – all the breath knocked out of him – the sensation a starburst of ecstasy behind his eyelids. And yet Moriarty _still_ carried on, swallowing the liquid in his stride while his lips _still_ slid up and down, up and down – his tongue still thrumming along the base of Sherlock's thick shaft, and now the paradise continued, irresistible, timeless, _unbearable_ in its perfection and the noises Sherlock made were full of the absolute _pleasure_ of it, hoarse with uncontainable excitement and… and… just the incredible, indescribable _sensation_ of it.

At last, Jim slipped his shining, drenched lips away from Sherlock's – now limp – cock, both of them breathing heavily as though they'd run sixty marathons in a row. Gasping for air, and stifling a giggle, Moriarty's eyes flickered upwards into Sherlock's own, and those lips curved into a wicked smile.

Then they both heard a _click_.

And a brief _creak_.

And battling every twitching, every _exhausted_ muscle in his body, Sherlock blinked away his orgasm-induced daze to twist his face to the side, to the source of the noise –

And he met John's gaze.

A horrible, horrible silence fell as things sank in for both parties.

John was standing in the doorway.

John had opened the door.

John was in the doorway, and he could see everything.

He was staring at them – and at the aftermath of what had just happened: at Moriarty poised over Sherlock's limp, naked dick, and their mutual breathlessness, and Moriarty's lips glistening with his freshly released cum –

John let out a noise that was barely human – of shock, of horror, of despair. And yet he stayed there, transfixed, unable to flee from what he had unwittingly witnessed. And Sherlock's senses returned to him in a rush – accompanied by a feeling of red-hot rage.

"GET OUT!" he screamed, springing himself up into a sitting position and leaning over his exposed bottom half, trying desperately to cover it. Jim pushed himself away from Sherlock, a hand leaping to his mouth in a futile attempt to cover up evidence. They both glared at the intruder with undisguised venom.

John finally recovered – and bolted out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Sherlock pressed his hands to his temples, trying to control his breathing.

_Oh my god_.

His cheeks burned with the absolute mortification of it. And it had been John. _John_. It should have been anyone _but_ John. He couldn't believe it… couldn't _bear_ it.

"Oh my god." Jim voiced the same inner thoughts, closing his eyes tightly and exhaling deeply. Sherlock trembled with the need to move, to undo everything, to _do something_ – but he couldn't. He couldn't. _God, what now?_

"All right. Calm. We stay calm," Jim continued, reasserting himself. When he reopened his eyes, they were full of nothing but grim determination. "He knew about us already–"

"That doesn't mean him just _walking in on us _like that is _okay!_" Sherlock countered through gritted teeth. He had found his underwear, and hastily put it back on, along with his trousers. He ran his hands through his hair, ruffling his curls; he could still feel the sweat at the back of his neck, and wiped it away as much as he could with his palm.

Moriarty sighed wearily. "Yes, I know. But…"

He fell silent. There was nothing they could say.

"I'm sick of this." The feeling of dread, embarrassment and shame was roiling in Sherlock's stomach, making him feel physically ill. He swallowed hard. "I'm so sick of this. This is one step too far."

"Maybe he didn't know–"

"He's not an idiot!" Sherlock snapped, curling his hands into fists. "Both of us gone, and noises in the bedroom? Who does he _think_ he is?!"

Jim calmed him by leaning forward and kissing him deeply. Despite himself, Sherlock's eyes drifted closed and he exhaled properly, before realising that the slightly salty taste on Jim's lips must be his own cum. He pulled away, unsure what to think of that.

Jim sighed again, running a finger along the detective's jaw. "What's done is done," he said at last, helplessly. "He can't… un-see us, or anything. And it could've been worse."

"_How?_" Sherlock whispered fiercely. He kept himself immobile though, loving the feeling of Jim's fingertips trailing beneath his chin. It sent pleasant shivers through him. "How could it possibly be worse?"

"Well, you know." Jim offered a wry smile. "He could have caught you here, hunched on all fours, with my dick all the way inside your lovely, lovely backside."

Sherlock huffed in amusement, then winced, imagining the scene. Admittedly, John walking in to _that_ would've been a lot uglier…

"I still need to… to do something about him," Sherlock murmured, more softly. "It's not right. He's ruining things and he has no right to."

"Do what you want, darling," Jim told him gently. "He's your ex, not mine. I won't stop you."

"He's not my _ex_," Sherlock protested.

"He basically is," Moriarty countered, then just smiled again, so lovingly that it turned the detective's insides to butter.

Jim lowered his hand and kissed him again, because he could. Feeling his heart lurch in his chest, Sherlock was struck, again, by that one thought: _I'm in too deep…_

"Go get him, tiger," Jim growled when they were done, his dark eyes full of mystery and mischief.

So Sherlock went to get him.

John was in the bathroom, washing his hands, when Sherlock entered.

He didn't need to ask why the detective was there. One look at the man's stormy expression, his ice-cold glare, was more than enough of an explanation.

John turned, leaned against the wall, and folded his arms. He met Sherlock's eyes coolly – despite his urge to cringe at the memory that arose, unbidden, of what he'd only just witnessed in the bedroom.

"John," Sherlock began, his tone several degrees below freezing point.

John pursed his lips, regarding the taller man, his face unreadable. "Yes?"

"Oh, don't pretend nothing's happened," Sherlock snapped, his voice even sharper than his cheekbones. "We both know why I'm here."

John exhaled heavily. "Yes, we do," he acknowledged, bowing his head. "And I'm sorry. Alright? I didn't know–"

"You could have _guessed!_" the detective cut him off, fuming. "You could have considered the circumstances and made a simple deduction. You're _aware_ of the nature of my relationship with Jim. And last time I checked it didn't involve any _spectators!_"

"Well perhaps I was _worried!_" John contradicted, his eyes shooting up and meeting the man's again in quiet fury. "_You_ disappear, _Moriarty_ disappears – and frankly he's not the most trustworthy man in the _universe_, is he?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath, clenching his fists. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing," he snarled.

John raised an eyebrow, in a mockery of surprise. "Which is…?"

"Coming between me and Jim," Sherlock replied, scowling. "In every petty way you can."

John's jaw was clenched tight. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, shut up!" Sherlock spat. "You've been jealous ever since you found out my relationship began."

"Why would I be jealous?" John struggled to keep his voice full of nothing but superficial contempt.

Sherlock met his gaze, challengingly. "Why do you think?"

John cleared his throat and straightened, squaring his shoulders; struggling to find the words he needed to say. "Look… Sherlock… I don't actually give a _toss_ about your whole… _romance_ thing." He pursed his lips. "But I am… _worried_… about your choice of partner–"

"Really? _This_ again?" Sherlock cut him off, curling his lip. "You seem to have forgotten that Mary was a spy and an international assassin, and lied to you about it until it was too late."

John stiffened, his eyes widening. The detective pressed on, ignoring the steely look in the soldier's eyes.

"And of _course_ Jim's dangerous. But so are you. So am _I._" He softened his tone now, made it gentler, more convincing. "John, I… I _do_ love him. All my life I'd scorned all sentiment as a distraction, a weakness, but now…" He trailed off, swallowing hard. "I'm… aware of the dangers. I've thought long and hard about them all, but… in the end, they don't matter." He lowered his gaze. "Jim understands me. And I understand him. And do you have any idea how… _amazing_ it is? When you're a freak like me, to find someone else just like you?" A deep breath. "He and I complete each other, and… and he's made me happy like no-one ever has before."

John remained silent for some time, immobile except for the lowering of his gaze, too, and the re-crossing of his arms.

"Please, John." Sherlock sighed once, wearily. "I know it's hard but you have to trust me. Let it be."

There was a long silence. Both of them seemed to be afraid of looking at each other.

Then,

"Did you ever love me?" John asked him quietly.

Sherlock's mouth went dry. He opened and closed it, words lodged in his throat. His heart was thumping in his chest, like a galloping horse drawing closer and closer.

"Yes," he whispered, simply.

John closed his eyes and nodded, grimly. A thousand more thoughts ran through Sherlock's head, things he'd never be able to say.

_But not like this_ and _you chose her_ and _you're ordinary_ and _it could have been us _and _you were too scared_ and _not the way I love Jim_ and _why did you choose her?_

"Okay," John finally replied.

_It's not okay,_ Sherlock wanted to say.

_Sentiment. Wasted sentiment._

_It's not okay._

"Now please," he said instead, "leave me and Jim alone."

John grimaced, turning his head to the side. Sherlock stared at him, hard. There was so much unspoken between them – and it was hurting them both.

"You're my best friend, John." He forced a smile. "My only one. Right?"

John simply sighed through his nose, biting his lip.

"Best friends help each other out. I killed Magnussen, not for Mary, but for you," Sherlock continued, his voice catching a little. "Didn't I? I protected her so you could live your life with her and you could be happy."

"I don't need reminding," John growled.

Sherlock ignored him. "Now I can be happy too, John. Don't you want that for me?"

John sighed and grimaced again, as though suppressing an inner conflict.

"Yes," he replied at last, but it sounded empty.

Then he pushed past Sherlock, shoved open the bathroom door, and disappeared to join the others.


	20. Happy New Year, my darling

It was over.

At last, at long last, it was over.

Sherlock leaned against the wall, heaving a huge sigh of relief. It was 1:23am of the first of January, and his guests had finally left. His eyelids were drifting closed with exhaustion.

Jim was leaning against the wall opposite him, watching him with his arms crossed and a slight smile twitching his lips. The criminal still seemed wide awake, his eyes never leaving Sherlock – and the detective was all too aware of his lover's gaze upon him. It was like a physical thing, and it changed everything – the way he was standing, moving, breathing. Despite how tired he was, there was still a part of him which wanted to launch himself at Moriarty, to press their lips together, to… _do_ things with him.

He decided to listen to the first part of that urge for now, and pushed himself forward to kiss Jim, who had seen him coming and greeted the lips with his own. Sherlock still felt like something was missing, though – there was some sort of void in his chest, a catch in his throat which only subsided when he wrapped his arms around Jim and buried his face in the man's neck. Slightly taken aback, Jim paused for a moment before hugging him back; Sherlock could feel warm hands pressing into his shoulder blades, and closed his eyes. He relaxed. Now at last he felt… peaceful. He felt content.

Jim's soft murmur in that deep, crooning Irish voice reached him as though from afar. "Shall we go to bed, my love?"

Sherlock made a vague noise of refusal, and hugged the man even tighter. Jim couldn't help but smile. Sherlock was such a child sometimes…

Moriarty took a deep breath. "Come on," he coaxed, his hand caressing his partner's back. "It's late. Let's go to bed." Then he chuckled to himself. "And I'm not propositioning you by the way, unless of course you _want_ to do something other than sleep…"

Sherlock laughed softly too, at that. "We'll see," he replied, detaching himself from Jim at last. He swayed on his feet a little – he really was tired… The night's events were taking their toll.

"Lean on me," Jim instructed gently, wrapping Sherlock's arm around his neck. The taller man did as he was told, and Jim strained a little to deal with the extra weight. Together, they started to walk to the bedroom, both their feet dragging a little.

Once it was within reach, Sherlock threw himself backwards onto the bed, sighing. Jim clambered onto it beside him, his face inches away from the detective's neck. He gazed at his lover's profile – it was all smooth, pale skin at perfect angles, with a mess of black curls thrown back to expose his forehead. Jim smiled lovingly. This was all too incredible. He could scarce believe it himself – he'd done it, he'd actually done it. Years of planning had borne fruit. He'd _won_.

"That won't do, Sherlock," he whispered, with a hint of amusement. "Get changed and get into bed properly. You can't sleep like that. It's bad for your back."

Sherlock's voice was a tired, slurred growl. "You get changed first."

Jim rolled his eyes, still grinning like a cat. "Alright…"

He got up and slipped out of his clothes, and when he glanced at Sherlock he was pleased to find that the man's eyelids were cracked open to watch Jim as he got naked. Sherlock grinned slyly when he saw that his lover had noticed.

Jim folded his crumpled clothing and placed it on a chair, then sat down, stretching. "Your turn, princess."

With a grunt, Sherlock hoisted himself up and disposed of his own clothes, chucking them onto the floor before crashing back onto the bed. Jim tutted in mock disapproval before bending to fold them himself, positioning them beside his own.

"Under the covers, Sherlock," he told the man, like a mother instructing a child. "You'll catch a cold."

Groaning, the detective clutched at the covers Jim held out for him and pulled them over his bare frame. Like an afterthought, he gestured for Moriarty to join him; the criminal didn't need telling twice.

They settled close to each other, breathing deeply. They gazed at each other for a moment; there was a world of invitation in those crystal blue eyes. Sherlock opened his arms. "Come here," he muttered, the corner of his lips curving upwards.

Jim wrapped his own arms around Sherlock's neck, positioning himself into his lover's embrace. Their lips met again, quietly and without fuss. Inevitably, of course, he could feel Sherlock's groin pressed against his own – and apparently the detective was more awake than he pretended to be.

When they decided to break apart, Jim raised an eyebrow, leaving the obvious questions unvoiced – _Well? Shall we?_

Sherlock's smirk was all the response they needed.

Kissing him again, Jim slowly shifted on top of him, his legs on either side of the detective's waist. He adjusted his weight, careful not to crush the man too much. As he ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair, his lover's hand reached out to the bedside table, grabbing the small tube without even looking.

_Well, we're forthright today, aren't we?_ Jim thought to himself, ending their kiss to take the lubricant from his lover. Wordlessly, he applied it, carefully spreading the oily substance in his backside and onto Sherlock's cock, which stiffened further at his touch – the detective took a sharp breath, then looked at Jim, his eyes widening in surprise. _Oh, so we're doing it that way?_ he seemed to ask. All Moriarty offered was a confident wink – which, bizarrely, set Sherlock's heart on fire.

_You perfect smug criminal,_ his consciousness muttered affectionately. _You make me feel stupid._

After kissing him again, Jim leaned in close to Sherlock's ear. "Ready, then?"

"Fuck you," Sherlock breathed, eyes alight with mischief.

Jim laughed softly, the sound bringing a tidal wave of love crashing within the detective. "Oh, you will," he whispered darkly, before grasping Sherlock's hard length and guiding it into himself.

Every muscle in Sherlock's body went rigid, his hands clutching tightly at the bedsheets as he gasped, suppressing his urge to cry out as Jim pushed down onto his cock, sinking it deep into him. The criminal shuddered as Sherlock reached all the way inside him, hitting his prostate and causing a starburst of sensation behind his eyelids. Sherlock moaned quietly as Jim lifted himself up again, until only the leaking tip of his cock penetrated his entrance, threatening to slip out. Desperately, Sherlock reached forward and gripped Jim's waist, shoving him down wildly on top of him and making them both groan to the sound of the creaking bedsprings. His breathing already uneven, Jim shifted himself up, rearing for that next blessed moment when Sherlock struck his prostate again – and he did, as Sherlock forced Jim's weight onto him again, pushing himself into the man's backside until he could reach no further. This time he pulled Jim upwards as well, relishing the feeling of his cock slipping in and out of the tight entrance, all to that heavenly rhythm he loved.

He gulped lungfuls of air, speeding up and clawing at Jim's waist to get him to _move_, hearing Jim's ragged breathing matching his own and letting the intolerable daggers of pleasure force little moans from his throat. They were going faster and faster, their legs twitching, and something about that wild look on Jim's face as he craned his neck and shoved up and down, up and down on top of Sherlock was driving him absolutely insane and making the sensations all the more powerful. Their naked bodies were sweaty and hard against and inside one another, mouths opened in ecstatic groans and gasps of shock at the sheer intensity of their pleasure. Jim had his eyes closed tightly in bliss as his whole body rocked back and forth, Sherlock slamming himself upward to meet him as soon as he could, the darkness causing gorgeous hollows on his trembling form. Then Jim's chocolate eyes shocked open, a helpless cry bursting from his plump lips as he squirmed, his slight movements sending a judder through Sherlock's cock. He was so close to coming – but he didn't want it to end, not yet, not yet –

"Oh – oh my god, Sh-Sherlock," Jim moaned for the first time, his breath hitching as he shook. His eyes were unfocused, glazed. It was all he was able to say. "Oh my g-god…"

And his words sent Sherlock spiralling even further out of control, hammering brutally into his lover, the throbbing, pulsing, red-hot tension within him growing almost too powerful to resist. He thrust forwards and backwards and forwards yet again, his nails digging into the skin of Jim's waist, and managed to stutter out his lover's name. "J-Jim…"

And then, at the peak of all this pleasure, Sherlock grabbed wildly at Jim's cock and started sliding his hand along the hard, leaking length. He knew he was going to come, but he didn't care – Jim's helpless gasp and the priceless heavenly shock on his face was worth it. Throwing Jim down one final time and shoving his cock all the way inside him, Sherlock came with a hoarse cry, pumping deep into Jim and making the other man convulse with the sensation, sending pure delight racing through every muscle in their bodies. Jim groaned lovingly as he came as well, his cum spilling onto both of their stomachs, the heat so unbearably perfect that Sherlock felt he could live this moment forever, caught in this fiery moment of pure, unspeakable glory.

"Sherlock," Jim panted again, leaning slowly forward and pressing their lips together, their breaths mingling. Sherlock let out one last low moan before relaxing, his hands caressing the small of Moriarty's back, slick with sweat. The thick, clinging smell of testosterone; Jim's dilated pupils and their ragged but slowing breaths; the heat and the slippery friction between their bodies; their hearts beating at a million miles an hour – Sherlock loved every moment they spent this way. Their tongues danced in each other's mouths, but the kissing was sloppy: they were both grinning too much. Eventually Jim broke free with a laugh, his eyes swimming with delight and with love.

"Any good?" he asked his lover, still breathless. His hand was moving ceaselessly along Sherlock's heaving chest, tracing the collarbones and the muscles which rose beneath them, his touch sending shivers through him.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, tiredly. "Need I answer that?"

Kissing him again briefly, Jim finally slid off his chest to settle beside him, shamelessly mopping himself up with the bedsheets; Sherlock, watching him, decided to do the same. "I'm sure this makes up for the years we spent terrorising each other."

"_You_ were the one doing the terrorising," the detective pointed out, stretching out his aching muscles and smirking at his lover.

Jim turned on his side to face him. "Admittedly," he agreed, then closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. "We should do this every night."

Sherlock's steadying heart still managed to quicken a little at the thought. "Our New Year's resolution," he joked. "Sex every night of the year."

"And on any other occasions too, of course," Jim added with a matching smirk. "Good god, what I'd do to you on your birthday…"

"Fifth of January," Sherlock reminded him, laughing a little. "Four days' time."

Moriarty's eyes widened. "I'd better start thinking of something now, then."

"Oh, go on." Sherlock was the one who kissed him this time, cupping the man's face in his hands.

"I'm so tired," he murmured when they were finished. He glanced at the clock – it was past two in the morning. "Happy New Year, Jim."

"Happy New Year, my darling." Jim's eyes crinkled into a smile. "Hold me."

And that was how they fell asleep, curled up in each other's arms until their breaths grew slower and their hearts continued to beat as one.


	21. Yes, sir

FOREWARD FROM AUTHOR (skip if you want)

First off.

I'm sorry about inactivity.  
I know this is so stereotypical and dull. But I am sorry.  
I've finally left the foster home I've been in for ten months, and things are chaotic. I've my GCSEs coming up and a million other things to deal with besides. But that's okay, because I'm getting better. My depression is clearing up. And soon, I'll be able to write just like I used to.

Secondly,  
I'm sorry about OOC.  
I mean, it's a bit futile to apologise for this. Any fanfic is inadvertently OOC. Jim and Sherlock aren't going to passionately fuck on screen, be it in a rape fic or a vanilla fic (like this one). But I suppose the Jim we see on-screen is the psychopath version of the one we see here, the one I imagine he's really like off-screen. And Sherlock, too - Sherlock is notoriously hard to write, because I can't really write from a genius's perspective when I'm not one myself.  
And I know OOC is annoying. People read the fanfics as a sort of extension of the show - and when one of the most vital elements of the show is missing, there isn't much of a point.  
Psychopath Jim doesn't really work with my plot, which is why I've changed him and tried my best to justify that change. I know it's not really enough. I'm sixteen. But yes. I am sorry.

Psychopath Jim will be there in my next chapter, more to see for myself if I really can write non-OOC.

I really, really appreciate all the supportive comments I've been getting. Each and every single one of them makes my day.  
I'm sorry I'm so inconsistent. There's a basic contract between writer and reader and I've been pushing that too much.

I am going to try to write more. I really am.  
Please bear with me, though.

This chapter's a bit shorter than usual. But I know what to do next, and hopefully it should be there soon.

Thank you all, and I love you all.  
I'm sorry for having been a mess lately.

But the Sheriarty must go on...

...

Chapter Twenty-One: Yes, Sir

...

The phone was ringing, _again_.

Sherlock accidentally elbowed Jim in the chest as he turned to grab it, making the criminal grunt a little and crack his eyes open. Swiping right on the green _answer_ button, Sherlock mouthed _sorry_ at him before speaking, his voice a little hoarse. "Hello?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

And with those two words, Sherlock's blood ran cold.

Jim must have seen the look on his face, because he sat up quickly, staring at him intently.

Sherlock forced himself to answer. "Moran."

Moriarty took a deep, shuddering breath, before slipping out of the bed to grab his clothes. Sherlock was too tense to appreciate the soft morning light on his naked form.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock tapped on the _Speaker_ option.

"Happy New Year, Mr Holmes." Sebastian's voice rang out, laced with sarcasm. Jim swallowed, hard, but didn't turn around.

Sherlock winced as he forced himself to reply with his bitter retort. "Let's hope it's the last Moriarty sees."

Jim did turn to him at that, and just looked at him. The expression on his face was unreadable. A thousand apologies were on the tip of Sherlock's tongue, but he swallowed them.

Moran laughed softly, oblivious. His voice still seemed so mild, so bizarrely tender. "Oh, we don't just _hope _so, Mr Holmes. But to cut to the chase. Have you heard anything from him?"

_Think fast!_ Sherlock's brain screeched at him. So he declared, "We're having lunch later today."

Jim blinked at him.

_What?_

Moran's voice dropped by several degrees. "And you didn't see fit to tell me about this?"

_Play the idiot, play the idiot_. "I-I'm sorry," Sherlock stammered. "I've been so – well, anxious. He must have a million tricks up his sleeve and I've no idea what to expect–"

"So what, you're just off to have _lunch_ then," Sebastian sneered. "A nice meal and a friendly _chat_. And then what? How about a nice _fucking_ while you're at it?"

Jim's teeth were worrying at his bottom lip. He looked slightly ill. Sherlock's hands were trembling a little. "N-no, sir. Nothing like that."

"_What_ then? Did he just _call_ you and ask for a lovely little reminiscing session, for old time's sake? Did he–"

"It's _nothing_ like that!" Sherlock interrupted loudly. His heart was hammering. "He texted me. Obviously. The place and the time–"

"_Which is?_"

"Angelo's. Again."

_You idiot_, his brain instantly admonished. _You could have chosen anywhere and it had to be there?_ Even Jim cringed at the answer.

There was a frustrated sigh on the other end of the line. "Crowded area. A capture like last time won't be easy… And at what time is it?"

Sherlock met Jim's gaze. "One o'clock sharp."

There was a pause as Sebastian thought about it. "I could send two or three of my new men–"

"No!" Sherlock said, too quickly, then forced himself to 'explain'. "It's – it's unlikely he'll try anything now, not yet. And this location's too risky. If he gets away once, he'll know I'm working with you, and I'll become useless."

A sharp breath. "That's true."

The detective nodded to himself. "I'll report back to you after the lunch. I'll tell you everything–"

"No, I want to see this." Moran's voice was cold, firm. "I want cameras. Microphones. Everything."

Sherlock's eyes widened.

"I'm… sure that can be arranged," he made himself say, glancing worriedly at Jim, who ran a hand through his hair, stressed.

"I want a live link by midday," Sebastian ordered.

"Yes, sir."

"Good. And next time you hear from him, I want you to contact me _immediately_, instead of _waiting _for me."

"Apologies, sir."

The title stung on his lips.

Moran's tone was unbearably smug. "I hope to hear from you soon, Mr Holmes."

"Yes, sir."

Sebastian put the phone down. The dial tone echoed in the small room.

Jim let out the breath he'd been holding. Sherlock lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.

"It's all right." Moriarty muttered, sitting down beside him.

"I'm sorry about…"

"It's all right," he repeated, looking down at him.

Sherlock swallowed. "We can – we can act it out. He won't notice anything."

"I know."

An uncomfortable silence stretched out between them. Sighing, Jim leaned down to kiss him gently. His palm gripped his lover's naked shoulder, and when their eyes met again, they were filled with grim determination.

"I'm going to have to act like I'm insane," Moriarty whispered.

"And I have to act like I hate you," Sherlock replied.

Jim's mouth twitched. "I suppose it's easier for me than for you."

"Oh, shut up." Sherlock offered a tired smile. "You're not _really_ insane."

Moriarty widened his eyes, manically, his familiar sing-song tone creeping into his voice. "I wouldn't be so _sure_, _Sherrr_-ly!"

The detective grinned and hit him with a pillow. With a growl, Jim batted it aside.

"Psychopath Jim is sexy, though," Sherlock murmured, the corner of his mouth curving upwards.

Moriarty sighed melodramatically. "Well, too bad you didn't see _that_ in all those years I was trying to seduce you."

"_Trying to seduce me?_" Sherlock combated immediately. "You killed a bunch of people to make me solve the murders, you had me chasing after you, threatened all my friends and tried to make me _kill_ myself – and _that's_ seducing me?"

"Aw, don't be so harsh," Jim purred. "I knew you wouldn't _actually _kill yourself. And you loved it all really."

A pause. "I did," the detective admitted. "Well, besides the threatening my friends part."

"Ugh. _John._" Jim's voice held a note of disgust. "Thank _god_ you got rid of him eventually."

Sherlock's heart couldn't help but squeeze a little in his chest.

_John_…

"Don't look at me like that," Moriarty said wearily. "He was in the way. And we're so much happier now."

"I know, I know," Sherlock said distantly. But he couldn't help but feel a trace of hurt at the thought of the man he'd once loved. In his mind's eye he saw it again, the look on John's face as he turned and walked away…

"Come _ooon_." Jim leaned over to kiss him again, but harder this time, more demanding. Sherlock kissed him back, just as passionate, glad for the sweet distraction.

By the time they pulled apart, John was the last thing on his mind. "You shouldn't have put your clothes back on… not yet," he murmured, with a sly smirk.

Jim rolled his eyes. "It was in case of an emergency," he explained, but offered no protest when Sherlock yanked his shirt upwards to expose his bare chest. The detective placed his hands there, loving the feeling of the smooth skin on Jim's muscles, the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

"We still need to shower," he pointed out.

"That we do," Jim agreed, reaching down to completely pull his shirt off. Sherlock drank in the sight of him; he could afford that, now that he wasn't on the phone with…

With Sebastian Moran.

A harsh stab of reality pierced through Sherlock, and he forced himself to focus. As much as he wished he could stay like this with his lover, there wasn't enough time right now. He glanced at the clock – they only had three hours.

"We have to hurry," he forced himself to say, sitting up. A brief look of surprise flashed on Jim's face, before the realisation dawned on him, too. "I'm sorry. We can do whatever we want later. But now…"

"No, of course. I get it." Jim stood up, offering a hand to help the detective onto his feet, neither of them bothered by his nakedness. "And we have to look the part. The suit I had when I came here…"

"I don't think it's cleaned. Sorry."

Jim waved away the apology. "Doesn't matter. It's only for a few hours."

"Right. I think it's in that drawer."

Nodding, Moriarty went to find it. Sure enough, it was tucked neatly away, and he draped it over an arm. Sherlock grabbed his own suit from the closet.

Then they turned to look at each other.

A playful smile flickered across Jim's features.

"We don't have much time, do we?"

"We don't," Sherlock echoed.

Jim pretended to think about it. "So showering together would save some time."

Sherlock struggled to keep the grin off his face. "It would, yes."

The criminal closed the gap between them, gripping Sherlock's jawline and bringing their lips together.

Then he grabbed his hand and, laughing, pulled him into the bathroom.


	22. Insecurity

"Angelo. Can I trust you on this?"

For once, the expression on the man's face was completely serious. "Of course you can, Sherlock," he replied, his voice gruff. "Anything for you, and for your–"

"_Nemesis_," the detective finished for him, firmly. "Just for today, he is my _enemy_."

"Yes." The older man scratched his beard, thoughtfully. "Should I pretend to be scared of him?"

"A little bit, yes. That would be great." Sherlock smiled as he clapped his friend on the shoulder. His hand fiddled with the tiny camera and microphone in his pocket; he'd attach both to his coat collar in about five minutes' time. Jim had already agreed not to ask him to take off the garment.

"Don't worry," Jim had joked, "You don't have to strip in front of me yet."

His heart sped up its pace, and Sherlock swallowed hard. _Don't be so nervous. It's going to be fine_.

He turned to look at Jim, waiting outside in his grey suit, his hair slicked back. The sky above his lover was a pale, smothering white, a single bright cloud seeming to stretch across the city; cars sped by in the street, undeterred. The criminal offered Sherlock a cheerful wave, although he could tell they were both equally anxious.

Unbidden, a thought arose: _He looks so fucking hot in that suit_…

Sherlock couldn't help but smile as he imagined peeling off those layers of clothing, one by one, later. But now he had to focus.

Nodding at Moriarty, Sherlock took his seat. As if on cue, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

_All right, all right_, he mentally snarled at Moran.

Tenderly, he took the gadgets, pressed the tiny buttons behind them and then clipped them onto his collar, which flopped a little with the extra weight. After adjusting them for a while to ensure they provided an optimal view, he took his phone out of the other pocket and glanced down at the screen.

**_Missed calls (1)_**_ – __Sebastian Moran_

Just seeing the name made him shiver with distaste, but he made himself speak, quietly, into the microphone.

"Is everything working?"

Sure enough, a text flashed on the screen.

_Yes. Two minutes to go. Put the phone away, NOW. SM_

Sherlock obliged, tapping his fingers impatiently on the table to calm himself. He kept his gaze forward, forcing himself not to look in his lover's direction.

Angelo appeared, as instructed. "Sherlock! Back again?" The detective offered a tight-lipped smile. "Are you eating alone, or–"

"I'm waiting for someone." Sherlock made his tone flat and cold. "I'll need two menus."

"Here you go, mate!" Two menus were held out. He accepted both, placing one at the seat in front of him: the signal.

The restaurant door swung open.

Moriarty walked in, calmly, coolly. The smile on his face seemed twisted, never reaching his eyes.

Sherlock's breath hitched in his throat. He was sure Sebastian heard it, but didn't care. The deadly expression was as familiar to him as his own name. Oh, Moriarty was in character, all right.

He got slowly to his feet as Moriarty reached him, then stiffly extended a hand. "Jim."

"Oh, so we're on first name terms now, are we?" Jim drawled, ignoring the outstretched palm as he sank into his chair – or so Sherlock thought, until Jim's hand reached out to snatch the detective's wrist. His grip was like steel.

With a soft smirk, Jim looked up at him, something dark playing in his gaze as he pulled the hand closer. "I'm _so_ glad you came."

Then with a chuckle, he released Sherlock, who snatched his hand back like it had been bitten. There was a slight tremble in his voice as he uttered, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Jim sighed and leaned back, grinning up at the ceiling as though at some private joke. "Are you _impressed_, Sherly?" he asked, flicking his gaze onto Sherlock's again. There was something wickedly delighted in his tone. "_You_ thought I was _dead!_"

"We've had this discussion already," the detective replied coldly.

"But what if I want to have it again?" Leaning forward again, Jim watched him intently for a moment as slender fingers plucked the menu from the table, before switching his attention to that. "Sooo… what're you getting?"

"I…" Sherlock swallowed, before turning to his own menu. "I don't really… I don't feel like eating."

"Oh, _please_ do," Jim groaned, in mock annoyance. "I'll even _pay_ for you if I want. You _really_ shouldn't keep up these nasty habits of yours."

"What nasty habits?" Sherlock responded icily.

Jim made a tiny pout with his mouth. "Like _moping_ over old _Johnny-boy_," he mocked, rolling his eyes.

Sherlock took a deep breath, forcing himself to push back the memories – mere _days_ ago, although they felt like a lifetime – of Jim telling him exactly that.

"What do you want?" he snarled instead.

Jim chuckled. "Aw, you're no fun today. What do I want? What do I want?" He pretended to think about it a little, turning his head from side to side and keeping his gaze fixed upwards. "Oh! I know! Why don't we play a _game_."

Sherlock made a small noise of disgust, to which Jim tutted, raising an admonishing finger.

"Why don't you _imagine_ what I want!" Moriarty made a grand sweeping gesture, the playful grin on his handsome features never fading.

Sherlock sighed deeply. "What do I know?" he muttered darkly. "You force me into false suicide after faking your own, and finally show up three years later and expect me to _read your mind_."

"What? Isn't that within your _amazing superhuman _abilities?" Jim smirked as he raised his head, defiantly. "Since clearly, _not eating_ is one of them."

The detective placed the menu face-down on the table. "I'll have the porcini risotto," he declared, with a smirk of his own.

Jim raised a perfect eyebrow. "Well, what d'you know? It looks like he _does _eat!" He placed his own menu down, above Sherlock's, their edges perfectly aligned. Then he glanced over at Angelo, and gave him a sweet, harmless smile. "I think we're ready to order."

The man hurried over, looking noticeably in awe of the criminal. "_Ditemi_."

"The _penne arrabbiata_ for me, and a _risotto con porcini_ for him," Moriarty claimed, his teeth white and even; something about the smile was… predatory. "With some _acqua gasata._"

"I don't drink sparkling water," Sherlock growled.

"Well, you're going to _have_ to, aren't you?" Jim sighed prettily, before sending Angelo off with a nod. His fingers tapped a rhythm on the table; slow, steady, unnerving.

"Here's my first guess." Sherlock placed his palms together and brought them to his lips, in his classic thinking pose. "You're here to whinge about your _Final Problem_."

Jim tutted again, quietly, giving him a pitying glance. "No no no, _that's_ over. We've already solved _that_ one."

"Oh, have we now?"

"Of _course_ we have, Sherlock. I thought you'd know better." Sherlock could feel Jim's leg jittering beneath the table. The criminal raised a sharp, perfect eyebrow. "Haven't you worked out what it was?"

"As a matter of fact, I've had other things to do lately."

Moriarty's lips twisted into another classic pout. "I must've overestimated how much I meant to you, then. Which is a shame, because I tried _so _hard for you to find me interesting." His grin stretched wider. "Should I try harder?"

Sherlock took a deep breath to calm himself. "Oh, don't bother," he remarked, trying to sound nonchalant. "I do find you interesting enough."

"Enough to reach your conclusion about that little problem of ours?" Their eyes met, burning with an almost… _feral_ tension.

Sherlock ran his tongue across his bottom lip. "Our Final Problem is over," he murmured, "because we've both established that neither of us can win. That day on the rooftop, if either of us had died, that would have been the end. It would have shown that one of us was better than the other, and speeded up the inevitable defeat of whichever one of us that was. But of course, neither of us _did _die."

"Very good," Jim purred, his eyes half-closing in pleasure. "So that means…?"

"That, to you, means we were made for each other." Sherlock raised his chin. "It means we are intellectual equals, _James_, and that we'll never be able to escape each other. And it means I'm all you have."

A heated silence stretched out between them. Jim had shown no reaction to his full name, instead watching the man before him with a calculating look in his dark eyes.

And those _eyes_ – there was a savage _fury_ boiling within them, a wild _rage_ which made Sherlock's skin crawl. The sheer wrongness lurking in Jim's pitch-black gaze… danger pulsed in the air between them, and despite himself the detective suddenly felt a wave of fear rush through him, cold and painful. And the harsh reality that he had fallen in love with this man before him – that he allowed him to perform the most forbidden acts of intimacy upon him, night after night – seemed now, for a split second, to be such a terrible mistake.

The lover who laid beside him at night, who met his lips with such tenderness as he wrapped his arms around him – that man seemed so distant and so… _fake_. Though Sherlock _hated_ himself for even thinking this, the raw anger searing through Jim's gaze made his sheer instability and desperation seem so much more real.

Self-doubt, self-loathing – the awful insecurity rose within the detective.

_Am I meant to love him?_

In his mind's eye he could see the shock and the horror on his friends' faces as they saw Jim appear before them. He could hear that little girl, that diplomat's daughter from all those years ago, screaming as she saw him after everything Moriarty had done to her. The sobbing of the families of the victims he hadn't been able to save. And above all, the way John had _looked_ at him after finding out about them.

He could hear his own voice, over and over, telling his past self that _this man is a psychopath… he's dangerous… he kills people… he's a psychopath._ And at the same time, his reassurances that _no, that's an act, I've figured it all out – it's triggered by childhood trauma – nothing more_…

And now… right now, he just didn't know what to believe.

A soft smile twitched on Moriarty's lips as they maintained their eye contact, the other man unaware of Sherlock's inner turmoil. And yet none of that soft, mocking humour ever tinged his haunting gaze. Something about the darkness within _screamed_ at the detective, calling for chaos and bloodshed and _pain_, so much pain that it made Sherlock's heart ache as much as it cowered.

Safety, warmth, love… in this moment, all those things that Sherlock had cherished were gone. And of course, he _knew_ that this was only for the benefit of the camera pinned to his collar – but the mere fact that the transformation could be so terrifyingly complete sent Sherlock's mind spinning.

_Have I…_

He couldn't bear to think it. But with this… _beast_ before him, he forced himself to.

_Have I fallen for a psychopath?_

That would make everything he thought he knew a lie. That would mean… that would mean he'd fallen straight into Jim's trap – hook, line and sinker – and lost everything in the process.

That would mean he'd have to claw himself free of a pit he'd obliviously flung himself into – and that this perfection he'd finally found in his life as Moriarty's lover would shatter. And he was too far gone to escape the pain that that would cause.

He felt faint. He felt ill. His hands were shaking, and yet Moriarty – seated right before him, at the restaurant where they'd kissed mere days ago – saw that, and did nothing.

That haunted smile was unwavering.

That harrowing gaze was unfaltering.

Sherlock forced himself to calm down. Emotions – dread, horror, hope, all fuelled by that most powerful _love_ – were spiralling out of control.

_This is an act_, he told himself. _Don't be an idiot. This is an act. This is all fake._

He took a deep breath. Moriarty tilted his head, slowly, watching him. He seemed to drink in the sight of Sherlock's insecurity. His weakness.

_Fuck, I can't do this._

_No_, he told himself furiously. _Your judgement is clouded. You've been through this so many times before_.

A hard lump formed in his throat. _But that was before it meant anything._

"What's wrong?" Jim spoke at last, softly, crooning. A hunter luring its prey. "I thought you'd have more to say than that."

A waiter arrived, younger than Angelo, with a bottle of sparkling water. Moriarty finally looked away to nod at the man as he poured water into both of their glasses, before placing the bottle on the table. Jim wrapped his veined fingers around his glass, bringing it to his lips as the waiter walked away.

"So it's a stalemate," Moriarty slurred over the rim of the glass. "Neither of us can kill the other without sacrificing himself as well."

Sherlock forced himself to speak, a sick feeling in his stomach as he desperately wished Jim would just _look away. Please, look away from me._ "But would you do that anyway?"

Moriarty laughed aloud at that. Lifted his chin and _laughed_ at him; mocking, cruel. The sound grated in Sherlock's ears. He flinched.

_Jim? This isn't you… is it?_

"Well, well, well," Moriarty finally chuckled when he was done. "That's for me to decide, isn't it? If you're actually _worth_ my own life."

The words – or rather, the gut-wrenching way he threw them at him – made Sherlock's mind crack even more under the strain.

He thought of how he must look right now. Weak. Pathetic. And that… that _hurt._

"_Jim?_"

It took him a second to realise that the word had actually slipped from his lips.

But it was too late. The fragile, keening word hung in the air between them. Moriarty's eyes widened, exaggeratedly shocked. "_Jim?!_" he echoed, his tone harsh. "Sherlock, my _darling_. God knows what's incited you to call me by my name today, but I have to say I like it." Cold triumph flared in the sharp curve of his lips. "What is it? Don't you have the _strength_?"

_I can't do this._

Sherlock stood. His hands were curled into fists.

He imagined Moran cursing colourfully before the computer screen with which the live feed was set up, but didn't care. With a shuddering breath, Sherlock walked past Moriarty and left the restaurant.

The frigid winter air stung his face. People hurried past, staring at the ground, each lost in their own world. Sherlock didn't slow his stride as he continued along the street, stopping only at the corner before a red traffic light.

Then, ripping the camera and microphone from his collar, he threw them to the pavement and crushed them underfoot.

With that, a spell seemed to shatter. A sound burst from his throat – something tense, something broken. A plethora of feelings seemed to rush out of him as he leaned against the cold, hard wall of a nearby shop.

He closed his eyes, counted to ten. A steel fist closed around his insides seemed to loosen a little.

He was no stranger to insecurity. It was part of his job; he wasn't _infallible_. But this brand of insecurity – the one intertwined with _love_ – was so new to him, and tore at him in a way he had never felt before.

Desperation. Irrationality. _Helplessness_.

He felt he could almost throw up.

"Sherlock."

A gentle, Irish voice that made Sherlock's heart squeeze uncomfortably in his chest.

_No. Not now. I can't talk to you right now._

"Sherlock, look at me."

There was something different about the tone, though. Something achingly familiar and bittersweet. _Caring_, Sherlock realised. _He sounds like he cares about me._

_And of course he does. He's Jim._

He opened his eyes. Jim was stood before him, and judging by the twisted wires emerging from a closed palm, he'd picked up the broken gadgets.

"Sherlock," Jim said again, and he sounded relieved. The look in his eyes was nothing like it had been mere moments ago; it was soft and expressive, the colour of melted chocolate. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

Sherlock swallowed. "I… no, I'm sorry. I couldn't… I broke character."

"It's alright." There was a slight worried crease between Jim's eyebrows, but he sounded sincere. "Let's go home. We can talk about this there." What he really meant, of course, was that _people are looking at us_. And of course they were – they must have been quite a sight, two clearly intimate men in suits on a street corner in the early afternoon…

There was too much going on in Sherlock's head for him to focus clearly on one thought. He hated it. He felt disoriented, naked, blind. His mind was tugging him in one direction and then the other, and just looking at Jim – the Jim he knew, the Jim he loved who seemed to be back now – made it all worse. But still, he placed a hand on the side of Moriarty's neck.

"Do you love me?" he asked quietly, just to be sure. His voice wavered a little.

Jim's eyes widened a little at the question. "Of course I do. Why?"

Sherlock shook his head. He needed to sit down. He needed to clear his head. He still couldn't quite believe it had made him fuck up so badly; it had never done that before.

He removed his hand and used it to clasp Jim's instead. "Home," he muttered, since it was all he felt capable of.

He glanced over Jim's shoulder. The traffic light was green. Squeezing his lover's palm once, he detached himself from the wall, and they began their walk back without another word.


	23. Wings

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock stiffly removed his suit jacket, folding it and placing it on the bed. He couldn't meet Jim's gaze. His voice was sullen with his guilt.

"It's alright," Jim replied softly, placing his own folded jacket beside the detective's as he placed a hand tenderly on his lover's shirt sleeve. As Sherlock tried to remove his tie, Moriarty stopped him, reaching over to do it for him instead.

"Moran's going to hate me so much," Sherlock continued, wearily.

"It doesn't matter." Jim quietened him with a kiss; but all too soon, Sherlock pulled away.

"Yes, it does," he protested. "This was our most important lead. And now I've gone and fucked it up."

"Listen here." Moriarty met his crystal eyes, a decisive tone entering his voice. "I know Sebastian. He'll be angry, of course, but in the end he'll deem you far too precious to abandon over such a petty thing. He'll call you eventually, once he's stopped seething. And then we'll work out what to do together. All right?"

Sherlock pursed his lips, and the worry in his eyes didn't disappear entirely as he looked down at the criminal – but it did soften. "All right," he conceded, grudgingly.

Jim smiled at him. "Good," he breathed, kissing Sherlock again – and then his hands reached down to tug at Sherlock's belt.

A slight look of panic flickered across Sherlock's face. "W… _wait_," he said weakly, his hands wrapping around Moriarty's. They both froze, the shorter man looking up at him in vague surprise.

"What's wrong?" Jim asked him gently. Sherlock closed his eyes with a grimace.

"Sorry, I just…" He trailed off, averting Jim's gaze.

Jim dropped his hands, and sat down on the bed. "Don't apologise," he reassured the man. "I just want you to tell me if anything's wrong." When Sherlock didn't reply, he pressed him further. "And something _did_ happen at the restaurant, didn't it?"

Sherlock sat down beside him, biting his lip. "It's… it's stupid."

"No, it isn't," Jim comforted him. "Don't worry. I won't get angry, whatever it is."

Sherlock kept quiet. Jim sighed.

"Was it something I said?" he offered. "Because… because I didn't mean those things."

"I… I know that." Guilt flushed through Sherlock, and he frowned at his hands. He couldn't bring himself to tell Jim what had troubled him. Now it seemed so… stupid.

"Whatever it is, it's alright," Jim repeated, coaxing him. He slipped his hand into Sherlock's, squeezing lightly. "Really. But you have to tell me."

"It's just…" Sherlock stopped himself, then forced himself to continue. "I started – I – I _doubted_ myself. You seemed so angry and hurt, and…" _And insane_, he thought to himself. But he couldn't say that out loud. "And I started doubting whether, whether I…"

"Whether it was all lies," Jim finished for him quietly, seeming to read his mind. "Whether I really was a psychopath."

Sherlock's head drooped lower. "Well, yes," he muttered, unhappily. "And – I'm sorry I panicked. I know it's not true, I wasn't… thinking straight…"

"It's alright. I understand." Jim paused, lost in thought. Sherlock glanced over at him, worried he'd upset him; but the criminal's expression was impossible to read.

And then the moment passed, and Moriarty stood up. "There's something I need to tell you," he decided, more to himself than to Sherlock. "Something I… Something I have to show you." He turned to his lover, extending a hand. "Let's take a bath."

"What?" Sherlock hesitated as he accepted Jim's hand and was hoisted to his feet. "But…"

"Let's take a bath. We can talk then." Jim turned, unbuttoning his dress shirt with one hand and removing his belt with the other. He walked into the bathroom, and Sherlock heard a gushing sound as the tap was turned on, steam curling lazily as water poured into the bathtub.

"Why?" Sherlock spluttered. It was barely three o'clock. A bath was ridiculous.

But something in the criminal's words – something stopped him from refusing. _Something I have to show you_. Implying that this – this wasn't just an opportunity for Jim to see him naked. It went… further than that. And a vague idea was forming in Sherlock's mind as to what exactly Jim had meant.

He wasn't sure, of course – and perhaps it was just wishful thinking – but there was something Sherlock had noticed the first time Jim had changed before him, and then the times they'd showered together, although the lighting was too dim when they had sex. He'd only questioned it once, but that had been before their... their _connection_, and Moriarty had avoided the question entirely. Even now, Sherlock didn't want to bring it up. He knew Jim would mention it when he felt ready to.

And perhaps, right now – perhaps this was when Jim felt ready.

His fingers reached for his shirt buttons and began to unclasp them. Jim, noting this, did nothing but smile. It didn't reach his eyes.

Ten minutes later, they were wedged in the bathtub, the plastic surface hard against Sherlock's back. His hands found themselves wrapped around Jim's neck, almost cupping his face. Their bodies were pressed tightly together, with Jim's legs on either side of Sherlock's waist and their faces only inches apart. Jim was staring at him intently; his own hands on Sherlock's shoulders and the elbows pressed to the detective's chest kept him balanced perfectly in place. The contact was intimate, powerful; and yet, right now, sex was the last thing on their minds.

Well, perhaps not the last. The warm water and the friction, the tension between their bodies, made Sherlock so much more aware of his lover's beauty: of Moriarty's toned skin and the curves and edges where their frames seemed to align so perfectly with each other.

_And they say that men aren't designed to be with men…_

But something about the look in Jim's eyes, calm and serious, stilled any sexual thoughts that threatened to rise. The bathtub was just large enough for the two of them. Droplets snaked their way down Moriarty's arms, his upper back arching upwards from the steaming water.

They said nothing. Their breaths were slow and steady, but Sherlock could feel Jim's heart beating hard and fast.

Tentatively, Jim took one of Sherlock's hands and guided it along his chest. He brought it along a tense but controlled route, across the delicate hollow of his collarbone and over to his shoulder blade – and there, of course, Sherlock felt it.

A ridge of flesh rose up on the otherwise smooth skin. He didn't need to check twice to know what it was.

A single, lumpy line of scar tissue.

His breath hitched in his throat. He'd been right. This was it.

Nervously, his fingers reached for more, running quickly across the uneven line. It seemed to curve, reaching about halfway down Moriarty's back. Sherlock moved his hand to the right, and sure enough, a matching, symmetrical scar aligned the other side.

He could just see the tip of the wounds, from the way Jim was arched over him. They were a pale white, their paths narrow but jagged. Clearly, they were decades old; and yet they still stood out, clear as day.

Jim's eyes were filled with a hollow, empty pain. Sherlock could feel the sting of fresh tears.

"Who did this to you?"

When Jim spoke, his tone was mild and gentle.

"Who do you think?"

Sherlock swallowed hard, bringing his hands away to cup his lover's face again instead. "But… but why…"

A sad little smile lifted Jim's plump lips. "I was eighteen," he said quietly. "It was the last straw."

Sherlock couldn't begin to imagine it – the absolute torture that Jim's childhood must have been. "I'm so sorry," he offered helplessly.

Jim shook his head slightly. "I've told you already, don't apologise."

There was a pause. Neither of them could find the words to say.

"Have you noticed something?" Jim asked, breaking the silence. "They're… they're on my shoulder blades for a reason. Can you think why?"

Sherlock was at a loss. He flitted through ideas in his mind, each as horrible as the last. "Wings?" he guessed, despite how bizarre that sounded.

To his shock, Jim nodded. "Wings," he murmured. His face seemed devoid of emotion. "He thought some sort of… demon, or something, had taken over me. He wanted to force it to reveal itself. That's what he told me." He pressed his lips tightly together. "An exorcism, if you will."

"That's… that's…" _Horrifying. Terrible. Cruel. _But none of those words sounded like enough.

"There was a boy." Jim closed his eyes, remembering. This time his smile held a hint of bitterness. "There's always a boy. This one I'd been seeing for two years. His name was…" He frowned for a moment, trying to remember. "Gideon. Yes. Gideon."

Sherlock dared not interrupt. Yet he couldn't help but wonder what this Gideon must have been like. For some reason, he pictured him like Jim: short, slim, dark-haired and dark-eyed. But perhaps it was the pang of jealousy which gave this imagined boy an easy, annoying laugh; a mediocre intelligence; and a pathetic obliviousness to the horrors of the world… horrors that Jim, on the other hand, was far too aware of.

"Classic story, this one. My father came home one day when he was supposed to be at work. Needless to say…"

Jim trailed off. Sherlock swallowed hard.

_And I thought John seeing me was bad_.

"And you know what? Gideon just… _left_." A dissatisfied hurt and anger flashed in his deep brown eyes. "I never saw him again. He left me, and then my father…" Jim cut himself off with a tiny, almost imperceptible sound; but of course Sherlock could hear it.

It was a whimper. And it was like a stab through Sherlock's heart.

"Such a sin, you see, was… in his eyes, it…" Jim was struggling to find the right words. Sherlock nodded quickly to show that he understood. "And it was worse because – in his eyes – he'd spent all those years purging me. _Cleansing _me." This time, the anger in his eyes was verging on mania. "Although _how_ rape constitutes as _purification_ is still beyond me."

This was dangerous. Moriarty was on the verge of letting go.

Sherlock pushed himself forward and kissed him, hard. It was all he could do. After a stiff moment of surprise, Jim finally relaxed against him, and relief fluttered within Sherlock's chest.

That had been close – too close.

But it had been worth it.

Sherlock couldn't begin to describe the emotions roiling in his mind. _Fury_, yes – at Jim's father, for being the monster subjecting him to all this. And there was something that felt like pity, but not quite – perhaps it was empathy, at his lover's plight. And there was another feeling that took a moment for him to put his finger on. _Shame_, he realised. Shame at himself, for ever doubting the depth of Jim's feelings.

"I'm sorry," Jim whispered when they broke apart. The rage was gone, replaced by nothing but a desperate sadness that gnawed at Sherlock's heart. "I'm sorry I had to tell you this."

"I'm sorry I had to make you tell me this," Sherlock contradicted him, his thumb running gently along Jim's cheekbone. "And that this ever happened to you in the first place."

"I just…" Jim sighed, frustrated. "I wanted you to see. To understand, you know, why I'm… I mean, why I act a certain way, sometimes."

"Of course," Sherlock replied hollowly.

"There's pain, Sherlock." These words were spoken in a rush, tentative and afraid. "There's _so much_ pain and I can never take it away, because all the memories are going to stay with me forever." A pause, a ragged breath. "But I… I _want_ to keep these memories, Sherlock. I wouldn't change them for anything in the world because… because they're part of who I am, even if I _am_ this terrible criminal who's ruined so many lives–"

"It's alright. I understand," Sherlock shushed him, echoing his words from earlier, although he felt like crying himself.

_If only I could make his pain stop…_

Jim forced out a laugh. "No, you don't – hear me out. There's so much pain, like I said, and – and it's always there, right? But I can forget about it. What I mean to say is…" And now he smiled, truthfully, beautifully. "When I'm with you, I forget all about it. You're all I can think of. I feel… I feel like those things never happened and like I'm not… I'm not actually broken."

Sherlock's eyes were wide. It was hard to stop his hands from shaking.

_How can I mean that much to him?_

He opened his mouth to stammer out something, _anything_, but Jim shushed him. "No, don't – don't talk yet. This is what I have to say. Right? And of course if I think hard enough about it the pain can come back, but it's impossible to feel for long when I look at you and I realise that you… that you love me."

"Of course I do," Sherlock breathed.

"And that's what I want you to remember." There was only the slightest tremor in Jim's voice now. "Whenever I go… whenever I feel that pain again. You need to remember everything I said here. That my love for you is… is more than words can describe. It's stronger than anything else."

And before Sherlock could reply, their lips met again, their tongues working their way into their mouths as their naked bodies pressed against each other, passionate, loving. Words were forgotten. Anger, hatred, shame – they all slipped away.

Sherlock's mind was reeling from what he'd just been told. His heart was hammering in his chest, and an unstoppable smile was trying to force its way onto his lips. This hot, all-consuming love pumping through every vein in his body… it was too unbearably perfect.

He was so happy.

And of course, terrible things had happened. Things that should never have had to happen to anyone. But somehow, those things had led to the two of them together right now: two naked geniuses kissing in a bathtub in the middle of London, each feeling the light-headed rush that was brought to them by pure, unequivocal joy.

And right now, they were both so _ridiculously_ happy.


End file.
